


All I Suffered

by Desired_Misery



Series: The Restoration of New York [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Dark, Gen, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Manipulation, Percival Graves swears a lot, Percival suffers a lot in this, Psychological Torture, Torture, Unreliable Narrator, Whump, Workaholic Original Percival Graves, not a feel good fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2018-12-12 02:34:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 36,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11727702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desired_Misery/pseuds/Desired_Misery
Summary: Five month is an eternity.Torture isn't pretty or heroic— it destroys. Until he doesn't know up from down, can't breathe without causing more pain, can't stay lucid long enough to recite his own name. It doesn't matter.The only constant in his life is agony and Grindelwald, and he fucking hates them both.--------------PLAYLIST: 16th Chapter





	1. Unauthorized House-guest

**Author's Note:**

> This is Percival suffering at the hands of Grindelwald. 
> 
> ***It is NOT required to read this fic as a necessary part of the series if you don't want to read it. Events in this fic will be alluded to in the future without the need to read any further than this note. 
> 
> But if you want to read about awfulness and Percival's descent into apathy and madness, this is the fic for you. It is a more graphic version for those that want it.
> 
>    
> 16th Chapter: A playlist for this fic

Kneeing Grindelwald in the crotch isn’t _necessarily_ productive.

But it serves him fucking right for being in prime position to get hit when Percival startles awake. A subsequent kick to the abdomen sends the dark wizard reeling back with a grunt. The choking pressure on Percival’s throat disappears with the wand digging into his temple as pain-induced reflex causes Grindelwald to recoil. Moonlight catches Grindelwald’s eyes and hair, turning the blond hair and pale skin a bluish white.

Percival twists, lunging for his waistcoat even as dread fills his lungs with lead. He’s a damn sitting duck— drugged, injured, and with almost no magical abilities. The spiking pain of his cracked ribs is only a mild ache with the adrenaline rushing through him. A few hours is not enough time to heal the dizziness and nausea caused by the explosion.

It is early morning when he should be sound asleep due to pain relievers. Percival knows as soon as he lurches off the couch he’s done for. His balance is shit and his head screeches in protest, clouding his mind. Being awake is one thing. Coordination is something else entirely. A wave of his hand does not conjure a shield he desperately needs.

He doesn’t hear the spell—

Percival crashes to the floor. The disequilibrium is too much for him. Percival throws up nothing. Fucking _throws up_ _from vertigo_. This is the least prepared Percival has ever been for a fight (including the many stupid duels he got into as a Junior Auror close to two decades ago). This is a colossal disaster. One of MACUSA’s best duelists isn’t able to cast a spell to fight a man in his own home. Percival would scoff in disbelief if terror wasn’t ripping his chest open.

Percival coughs and gags, on his knees with a hand on the couch to brace him. His vision distorts the floor, making it impossible to move if he wants to avoid passing out. Grindelwald’s low hiss of pain is quite over the pounding of Percival’s head. Darkness creeps in from his peripheral vision, heavy and persistent.

He curses his own stubbornness for refusing to stay overnight in the hospital.

Percival’s wand is three feet from him but it might not exist for how little it will help him. He would reach for it if he could. He can’t— he’s weak as a kitten, nauseous, and sporting a brain injury from his earlier tangle with the dark wizard. Was it an ambush? Was this planned from the beginning?

_A week before he is back to normal._

He has at most twenty seconds before Grindelwald is fully recovered from a dirty hit— not a fucking week.

The dark wizard moves around behind him— Percival refuses to look, staring at the ground trying to breathe without aggravating his ribs and his head. A few extra moments can fortify his composure.

Calling his patronus is a wasted effort. If only he could get a message to someone— he could call for Lotty, but… no. A house elf is no match for Grindelwald. Percival would invite her to her death. He cannot reward her loyalty and friendship with a futile call for help. She spends more time at Percival’s place upstate since it needs more care than he has time to give. _Thank Merlin_ she rarely frequents the penthouse.

Hopefully, news of his injury doesn’t reach her today. If Lotty apparates here, Grindelwald will strike her down without hesitation.

“I have to say, I’m disappointed.” Grindelwald’s smooth, accented voice breaks the silence between Percival’s controlled, shallow breaths. The dark wizard picks up Percival’s wand, taking a few steps past Percival. Percival leans against the couch as he tries to fight vertigo threatening to make him sick again.

“I didn’t know your head injury was this severe. You’re in no state to put up a fight, Percival.” He sounds concerned as if he made an ill-timed house call. _Bastard._ Grindelwald is the one that did this to him. Knowing the dark wizard’s habits, the ambush in Wisconsin was not left to chance.

Mercy Lewis, this is fucked up. Percival closes his eyes in frustration. He was not prepared for an ambush. MACUSA worries about his supporters, not the wizard himself. What a damning mistake. Percival and his Aurors assumed Grindelwald would stay in Europe, only moving to America if his following picked up traction. The Auror department is focused on squashing any talk of Grindelwald’s fanatics to discourage him. European Aurors were supposed to be the ones with face-to-face encounters.

What a load of shit that did.

Percival doesn’t catch what knocks him over— a kick, a hit, or a spell. He lands on his back. The impact of his head on the floorboards loses him a handful of seconds to the pain. When he forces his eyes open, Grindelwald stands over him, relaxed as he inspects Percival’s wand. Anger surges at the sight.

Percival would kick him again, but a spell pushes him, forcing his muscles to remain unresponsive. His breathing slows, labored, but his heart pounds useless in his chest. Percival attempts to fight the spell. Without any magic of his own, he cannot budge. It must be an alternative to the Full Body-bind curse.

When the dark wizard flicks his wrist, the tip of Percival’s wand glows. Grindelwald smiles, pleased. The golden light mimics the shower of sparks that appeared when Percival found his wand after a few hours of searching for it in Thiago’s shop.

Betrayal sinks through him. Why is his wand compatible with Gellert Grindelwald?!

“Lovely wand, Percival.” Grindelwald purrs, eyes glinting as he lifts it to shatter something across the room. Thinking about it, it might be some of Percival’s good china.

“Ebony and white river monster spine, isn’t it? America has interesting wandmakers, yours choosing to specialize in specific wand cores. But it makes sense, holding one.” Grindelwald slips his other wand into his pocket, a white thin one Percival remembers seeing in Goldstein’s memories.

“Your wand feels clear and without the resistance some wands have because of poorly-paired wood and core. The blessing of family wealth.” Grindelwald glances around the penthouse as if to imply Percival hadn’t worked his ass off for the past twenty-five years to earn his last name and his income.

“I don’t think I could have asked for a better wand than my own.”

Percival growls, hiding his dismay. The curse only allows Percival to manage a weak rumble in his throat.

“Fifteen inches, too. I won’t have to worry about imploding this one since you are a powerful wizard yourself.” Grindelwald conjures a blinding light with a silent wave of his hand. Percival winces, closing his eyes as light stabs through them into his skull. His stomach rolls.

Shit. He should have stayed in the hospital.

A line of fire appears across Percival’s chest. His eyelids snap open. Blood wells through his white dress shirt (newly scrubbed clean at the hospital hours ago), pooling from the gash. Grindelwald’s face is a cold mask of clinical interest, watching as Percival refuses to react. He cannot give Grindelwald the satisfaction of panic.

_“...vindictive, goal oriented, and obsessed. Will not listen to reason.”_

_“...a sadist; uses extensive torture to get information or as a way to set an example.”_

_“...charming, manipulative, and intelligent… is one of the best-known occlumens, and talented in both wandless and nonverbal magic.”_

_“...very dangerous! Do not confront alone…”_

Snippets from Grindelwald’s extensive criminal file echo in Percival’s head. All of it describes a dangerous wizard to the highest degree. He is in Percival’s penthouse, has control of his wand, and Percival can’t fight back. He can’t call for help.

This will only end badly.

Best case scenario, Grindelwald kills him. Quick, easy, and impersonal. Unless the dark wizard tripped the wards and the entire Auror department apparates here. Although, it is unlikely Percival’s wards have held up against the dark wizard. He was not woken up when someone was near his door, breaking in, or even in his damn living room.

Percival is not getting out of this by himself. Only if he recovers from the head injury in miracle time.

Worst case (and most likely) Grindelwald is going to torture him to make Percival talk. Overseas governments have shared files and photos of Grindelwald’s victims. Those he kills quickly are the ones who got lucky. Knowing what waits in store for him isn’t easy to face.

As long as Percival can hold out, his Aurors should find him. He has felt the Cruciatus Curse. Not for any length of time— a grazing hit in the midst of battle a few times. Nothing to the caliber that Grindelwald will use on him.

Or Percival dies in agony if Grindelwald wants him dead to spite MACUSA. It would make a statement the press would eat up: Director of Magical Security found dead in his own home.

Squaring up against his fate, Percival glares at Grindelwald. His position aside, stubbornness and pride will never allow Percival to yield easily. If Grindelwald wants information, he’ll have to fight for it. If he wants Percival dead… then he won’t die a coward.

Defiance twists into horror as the dark wizard grins, features morphing and changing. Hair darkens and lengthens, bones shift. In the low light of Percival’s living room, his brain catches on the features, trying to put together what Grindelwald is doing-

Percival stares at a mirror image of himself. His mouth dries.

“I'd try and talk sense into you to join my cause, but we both know that would be a waste of our time.” Percival’s voice coming from Grindelwald is bone chilling. Percival studies his own face as Grindelwald crouches down next to him, shoving the coffee table aside with a careless wave of his hand. The potions break when they hit the floor.

He's right about that. Percival will never be one of his fanatics.

A force slams against Percival’s mental shields. No cracks mar the thought-tight wall surrounding Percival’s mind. He focuses on seeing his face move without his own bidding— the disconnect is not helped by a splitting migraine.

Grindelwald grimaces, a brief flicker of annoyance. “I’m going to need your memories, Percival. I cannot replace you without them.” He pauses— another gash opens along Percival’s stomach. Shallow, but not superficial. The burn of pain competes with every other ache and bruise.

Percival tightens his shield, shrinks his thoughts. The brush against his mind is a curious whispered threat. Grindelwald is not wearing Percival’s current battle-weary appearance. This isn’t a spur of the moment decision. The dark wizard studied him and practiced human transfiguration for this.

“You’re going to give them to me.” Grindelwald bares his teeth in a mockery of a smile— Mercy Lewis, Percival hopes he has never made that expression in his life. “We have a week, after all. You’re on medical leave.”

_Blast it all to hell!_

“I’m not a patient man, Percival. You are not going to resist forever. I have a proposal: give in right now. Let me have what I want and I promise your future… accommodations won’t be unpleasant.” Grindelwald pauses for theatrical effect. He’d be delusional to think Percival is going to make a deal.

The dark wizard wants Percival to fight back; the desire for pain is poorly hidden in dark eyes.

Percival’s mind reels in shock. Replace him? As director? It makes no sense— sluggish thoughts push through the pain as Percival tries to analyze the outcomes and reasons why Grindelwald would do this. No current cases are brewing against the dark wizard. Nothing Percival has seen—

“Not interested?” Grindelwald lessens the spell holding Percival to the ground. Enough for Percival to twitch his limbs and grit his teeth against the sharp pain radiating from the gashes. One is diagonal across his chest. The other transverses his abdomen. Blood runs down Percival’s sides, hot across his skin.

“Fuck off,” Percival snarls.

Any hope that Percival’s wand will refuse to work is ruined when Grindelwald points it at Percival—

His world explodes.


	2. Twelve by Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lull before the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: none!
> 
> There will be warnings in the notes of each chapter for your information.

It has been at least an hour since Percival woke up in complete darkness. Waking up is a strong term— most of his awareness is pain and a soul deep sickness explained by a compounded head injury. If there was light, he would bet his vision would be doubled.

The pitch black surroundings do not help gauge the time Percival spends swearing under his breath. It is not lost on him why his voice is hoarse and his throat is raw. Or why every damn bruise, cut, and cracked bone flares with new pain. Blood and traces of dark magic linger on Percival’s tongue, ferric and acidic.

He checks to make sure he has all his teeth and hasn’t bitten through his lip or cheek. Grindelwald would care if Percival choked on his own tongue during the Cruciatus Curse only because the dark wizard needs information from him. Hypocritical concern is the height of irony in the situation. Stretching his fingers and scrunching his toes discovers no broken bones. Cautious movement reveals his legs and arms are in working order. Percival is shaky and weak, but structurally his bones are fine.

Why Grindelwald choose to knock Percival unconscious without making him remember the pain is unknown to him.

Sitting up in complete darkness is harder than it should be with a head injury. Percival scrambles to prevent himself from breaking his nose on the stone floor, suppressing a hiss of irritation. He waits out the twist of his stomach with a clenched jaw. He has better things to do than throw up every time he tries to balance.

Like trying to learn everything he can about this dark hell-box.

Percival takes a minute to sort his thoughts and concentrate on keeping his occlumency up to strength. He doubts Grindelwald is near him; the nearly imperceptible tingle on the back of his neck is absent. Percival wonders if it is instinct reacting to magic or the brain’s recognition of someone else’s breathing patterns.

“As you can probably tell, there is no light here. For the benefit of whoever might view these memories, I’ll describe all I can as long as I’m able.” Percival says to the still air, listening for a change or indication of a reaction. Nothing except for the shrill ringing in his ears— is that the silence? Or his concussion?

Giving himself a task is good for his sanity. He needs to keep calm, and treating it as a formal memory investigation might help Percival’s unease. _When_ he gets out of here, MACUSA will want him to file his experience for further examination.

“Or I’m blind.” He adds after a moment’s thought. “It really doesn’t matter, actually.”

Each word is picked carefully, strung together with considerate thought and planning to combat the dizziness and muddiness of his brain. He needs to pay attention to the best of his abilities— there is no room for mistakes.

Percival keeps his eyes closed since there is no difference if he stares into darkness. It would be like Grindelwald to make him blind. Mulling in the silence, Percival can’t decide if his apathy over his potential blindness means anything. He certainly doesn’t need sight right now and it isn’t hindering him.

Moving on, he presses his hands to the floor. Rough but even stones lay under his hands in uniform rectangles. Percival traces the grout around them, confirming it is no run of the mill cave. Grindelwald was ready for him.

He isn’t flattered.

“It feels like regular commercial stone. I’m no expert, but I’ll guess the color is… grey. Statistical probability, in case I’m right.” Percival cannot help the sharp, dry sarcasm. “I am also willing to guess this stone is very resistant to magic. The grout is where the spells will be— it’s how I’d build a cell.”

MACUSA’s cells are a feat of magical engineering. The outer stones are resistant to magic, while the grout holds the spellwork and works as a conductor to the middle layer of bricks. Certain stone types respond to magic in different ways. The inner layer is made of materials with a tendency to absorb magic, making it close to impossible to escape with brute magical force. It would dissipate through, misdirected by the grout if a criminal somehow gets through the first wall of blast protection.

He inches back, cautious as he seeks the wall and hiding a gasp as the gashes twinge. A few feet later his back brushes more stone. Percival shuffles along the wall, a hand running along the stone to feel for any irregularities. The first corner is ninety degrees and so is the other three.

“No sign of a doorway first pass around. I’ll do a more thorough check soon. The room is about twelve feet square, all stone. I’d check the height if my balance was better than nonexistent.” Percival says, not trying very hard to keep the grumble out of his tone.

His second pass of the cell is slow and careful. Percival touches every square inch he can reach with his fingertips. The tingle of magic resists him when he attempts to scratch the walls with his fingernails. The identity and purpose of the spells woven into the cell are unknown to him. Without his own magic, he cannot cast diagnostic spells.

“Hm… I’d guess there is an anti-apparating jinx in place. And either a well-concealed entrance or a temporary one that is not currently present.” Percival backs himself into a corner to have his back against a solid wall. He automatically lifts his wrist to check his watch— first, he realizes he can’t see. Second, it’s gone.

Fuck.

His watch is gone… but did he take it off? Percival tries to recall, unnerved. He knows he took off his shoes, tie, jacket, and waistcoat. But did he take off his watch? Coming home was a blur of pain and exhaustion. He didn’t make it to his bed to sleep. Percival has never had an issue falling asleep in uncomfortable positions or fully clothed so it’s not like he would have noticed if he slept with it on.

The Cruciatus Curse causes lapses in memory. Is this the start?

Percival forces himself to take a deep, controlled breath. If it is gone, it’s gone. The silver watch has no magical properties yet it is one of the few sentimental items he owns. If Grindelwald destroys it… well, the watch is the least of his worries.

It takes minutes of silence for Percival to realize the room is freezing.

Not cold enough to kill, but enough to bite through his slacks and dress shirt with ease. Great. Cold, nauseous, and in pain. Just wonderful. At least he isn’t bleeding anymore. Percival inspects the gash along his stomach. It has clotted, dried blood sticking the edges of his shirt into the wound. He must have been unconscious longer than he previously thought if there are no wet spots on his shirt. Percival’s fingers hit tacky, clumped hair at the back of his skull. A gentle prod sends a crippling wave of agony rebounding down his spine—

Shit.

Percival waits for the echoes of pain to disappear before he determines the extent of the damage. Dried blood flakes off in his hand. The Cruciatus Curse can cause seizures— it is possible Percival slammed his head into the stone and doesn’t remember. He grits his teeth when he presses on the surrounding bone, but nothing gives. Not wanting his wounds to close with fabric in them, Percival takes short, deep breaths as he pulls his shirt out of the gashes. Disturbing the clotting reawakens the edge of pain cutting through his chest and stomach.

With the room this dark, no one can see his hands shake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be up later since I'm starting school :)


	3. Self Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grindelwald isn't known for his patience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:
> 
> Description of violence/injuries, brief thoughts of self-harm, torture.

 There is no warning—

Only Grindelwald’s sudden appearance.

Percival has enough time to recoil. The light blinds before the curse seizes him— a hundred thousand claws digging into flesh and bone. Sinking through his skull, searing hot agony carves paths down his spine—

It is only a half second, long enough to punch the air from his lungs and leave him gasping for breath. Percival checks his occlumency shields when Grindelwald releases the curse. They are strained but effective. Pulse pounding in his ears, he gulps in air to slow his heart.

Self-control will save him.

Merlin knows Percival has practiced it for most of his life. From a young child in adult company, quiet and polite. In school, he was studious and relentless in the face of the hidden scorn that follows a descent of the Original Twelve. (Finding annoyance of other elitists’ children trying to associate through bloodline and wealth, but masking it well. Envy turned the average Ilvemorny student away to behold Percival’s talents and namesake). When he was old enough to become an Auror, his peers realized “self-control” meant something different to Percival. His self-control is more akin to self-discipline: spending a thirty-hour long shift chasing down a smuggling ring with everlasting endurance and the skills to do it. How much can he work, how many criminals can he put away, how many people can he help?

Self-control is not restraint in the Graves family.

It is spending days perfecting combative, wandless magic. It is nights lost due to midnight raids. Or sitting vigil for Seraphina as she and him waited for the votes to come in, trying to hide his cheerful pride. It is maintaining and improving the functionality of MACUSA— focusing on beating quotas each subsequent year. The weight of his title and position is too heavy to afford any mistake.

Now—

Self-control is bearing the agony without yielding.

Percival clears his throat and picks himself off the floor with a grimace. Slowly, with more effort than he should spare. Grindelwald leans against the far wall wearing his own face again (thank Merlin), Percival’s wand in hand. The dark wizard’s body language is confident, relaxed. Arms crossed over his chest, feet shoulder-width apart. The suit Grindelwald wears is black and elegant, similar in style to Percival’s own wardrobe. Shadowy fear curls in his chest.

False bravado urges Percival to sweep his hair back into a semblance of its usual undercut. A simple gesture of preening that could be taken as disinterest. Percival bears the silence as his muscles burn and his nerves misfire in painful protest to the curse. Sitting against the wall is not ideal (if Grindelwald was closer Percival would lunge for his wand). Between his unsteady legs and questionable balance, standing it out of the question.

Grindelwald’s continues silence is unnerving. The dark wizard waits, observing.

Percival confirms the room is twelve feet square of enchanted gray stone. No visible entry at all. No distinction between one wall and the next. Not even a window to offer a glimpse of sunlight. Percival is already disoriented by the identical walls. Even the cells in MACUSA have a visible door, a small cot, and a small semi-private toilet.

When Percival looks at his ruined shirt, he is surprised by the amount of blood soaked into the white. His gaze jumps to the rust-colored stains in the center of the floor, his dried blood staining the grout. Blood loss cannot be helping his infernal headache. The painkiller potion was worn away by the Cruciatus Curse.

“I’m going to get what I want.” Grindelwald says when Percival’s breathing has returned to normal. When Percival has the sense to understand words over the screaming in his ears.

“Not easily,” Percival replies, cocking his head with an arrogant smile. He shouldn’t be goading the dark wizard, but fuck it. There is nothing else to do but defy and wait.

Annoying the perpetrator in any situation is ill-advised, especially in a hostage situation. If one plays along, it gives the search teams more time… usually. But Percival cannot ignore Grindelwald’s plans to replace him. The dark wizard oozes confidence. With it comes the inference Grindelwald is not worried Percival’s Aurors will find him within the next twenty-four hours.

Grindelwald, damn him, chuckles. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” The amusement in his heterochromatic eyes is corrupt. His smile is mocking, patronizing. As if Percival is the fucking one out of line here.

Grindelwald doesn’t even move, a silent _Crucio_ tearing through the room-

Percival chokes on a scream. Muscles lock, contracting. Pulling at tendons. Glass shards shove through his skin, piercing organs and digging under his fingernails. Ignites the lining of his brain. Lungs fight the need for oxygen, unresponsive diaphragm refusing to pull in air. Cracked ribs creak, bones threatening to splinter if muscles use any more force—

The spell fades.

A ragged inhale is all he can manage. Anticipating the dark wizard, Percival draws his mental shields around him. Still holding strong. As long as he has enough sense to keep them up, Grindelwald will struggle to break into his mind. Decades of practicing occlumency has not gone to waste.

Some wizards and witches struggle to multitask during occlumency. A majority of the magical population will freeze when they feel someone attempting to read their mind (if they notice it at all). Aurors cannot afford that kind of reaction— mid duel, it is fatal. The trick is to focus on the duel, reduce one’s awareness to the situation so other thoughts are not in the way.

Percival can hold conversations, duel, and do almost anything while maintaining his mental shields. He had legilimens test him, dedicated time and energy to rote practice until he could keep his thoughts private. Even asleep his mental wards are present.

But one day Percival’s self-control will buckle. The sicker and weaker he becomes, the harder it will be to keep the dark wizard out. There only needs to be one slip, one mistake before all is for naught.

“You're stubborn,” Grindelwald says, tone light but expression disapproving. Was the dark wizard only willing to tolerate a little resistance? Did he not think Percival would fight tooth and nail to keep his memories to himself? Hysteria bubbles up in his chest, filling the space where absolute panic would reside. Percival takes a small amount of pride knowing he’s annoying Grindelwald.

“That's accurate,” he manages to say. Blood leaks out of his mouth, over his chin and his neck, hotter than the sweat dripping down his back. He bit his cheek— almost through it, judging by the pain and the amount of blood filling his mouth. Percival tilts his head. Crimson slides past his lips and splatters on the floor. A careful, painful swipe of his tongue confirms there is a large depression, gouged out by his own teeth.

Percival spits out more blood, not wanting to swallow it. It would be a fast way to make himself sick again. The temptation, however, for something to soothe away his dry and scratchy throat is there. It has been… hours since he has eaten. Dinner was a few cups of coffee because he was distracted with the piles of paperwork on his desk.

Hunger, thirst, and pain will have to be accepted. Otherwise, Percival’s sanity will crumble—

_“Crucio.”_

A strangled cry escapes when the curse hits— his spine arches. There is a distinct _snap_ in Percival’s left knee. He’d grab it, but agony traps him to the stone. Building in his head and his throat, liquefying his internal organs. A red haze descends, wrapping him in unforgiving edges of sharp pain. Heart fluttering in his chest, trying to regulate its irregular pulse. Fast and stuttering. Acid eats a hole through his stomach. Dripping and sizzling into his abdominal cavity—

If he could breathe he’d be screaming, fire building in his head and chest, burning his fingers and grinding his teeth in his jaw to crack. He’d gouge out his own eyes if he could move just to get it to stop—

 

He is face down, panting, forehead against the cool stone. Great, heaving breaths of cold air to fill his exhausted lungs. Sweat trickles down his face, soaks into his clothes. Percival has no energy to gasp when agony races along his back, blood appearing from a new gash. He swallows hard and resumes breathing. His lungs scream for air but the curse has left him weak.

Grindelwald slams into Percival mind— halted by the still standing wall. This time the dark wizard snarls, pushes harder. The equivalence of a dragon scratching at stone. Percival winces, the force of Grindelwald’s attack leaving marks. But he holds, the room spinning around him and blood staining his teeth red.

Percival groans when his right little finger breaks. Pain radiates up his arm, mixing with the lingering curse. He cradles his hand to his chest, forcing himself to keep breathing. Muscles tear, ripped open by the dark wizard’s preference for the slashing curse.

It starts. Grindelwald is losing his temper. Merlin knows what he’ll do now—

If one has the energy and ability to scream during the Cruciatus Curse, the caster isn’t putting all his effort into it—

Time starts to skip, leave gaps between Percival’s ragged exhales and when he last opened his eyes. Grindelwald’s voice fades around him, the rushing in Percival’s ears drowning him out. Blood flows from his injuries, blanketing his back and stomach in crimson. Haphazard flicks of Percival’s wand open lines across his shoulders. Bisecting his tricep, cutting the trapezius. Leaving a long mark along cracked ribs, deep enough to score bone.

The agony gives him something to hold onto through the boiling in his head. Percival grabs the pain with both hands and his mind, the razor’s edge a crisp focus.

Resist.

 

The incendiary agony races through his shoulder but there is no air in his lungs to give it an outlet—

Resist.

 

Take a breath.

Exhale.

 

Relax— muscles spasm, overloaded with the Cruciatus curse. Twitching and cramping.

He tastes dark magic and blood. Always blood collecting in his mouth. Percival keeps spitting it out— well, sometimes he opens his mouth and lets gravity coat his chin red. In theory, Grindelwald does the most work. Not that the dark wizard will get tired before he breaks through Percival’s occlumency.

All he has to do is avoid cracking under the pressure—

Breathe.

Another broken… yeah, it’s a broken finger. Or his wrist? Doesn’t matter.

The pain would shatter Percival's mental protection if he fought it. He knows better. Somehow, through the screeching of nerves and the heat of blood and sweat burning his skin, Percival lets it envelop him, accepting agony to provide another layer from Grindelwald’s pressing attacks. Tells himself it'll hurt the same giving in and fighting back— the dark wizard isn't in the habit of keeping promises. Can't trust a word that comes out of his mouth. Percival has a duty to all who rely on him to protect and keep them safe.

 

It stops.

 

Percival’s gasp turns into a wet cough. Bladed agony seizes his ribs, stabbing through his lungs and diaphragm. Coughing turns into a cry of pain which turns into a need to clear his throat. An endless trickle down his trachea—

Grindelwald steps on Percival’s broken wrist.

He’d laugh if he could, barely noticing the twinge over the sparks ripping up his spine. But he can feel bones grind under the dark wizard’s shoe. It must be a cue. With an internal sigh, Percival looks up.

Too bad Grindelwald’s monologue is worthless to Percival’s ringing ears. Instead, he commits Grindelwald’s face to memory, pouring all his hatred into it. The malicious curve of the dark wizard’s faint smile, the madness in his heterochromatic eyes. But most of all, the relaxed way Grindelwald holds Percival’s wand.

Percival attempts to gather his magic— anything! There is a hollow void where he used to find it. What happened?! Even when suppressing someone else’s magic, it is a battle of strength. Percival should feel his magic trapped, at least— not gone. Grindelwald is talented, maybe a better wizard than Percival. But not to the point where he would be outclassed to this degree. (He wouldn’t fucking be in this situation if he just stayed at the hospital overnight).

Something else, then. A factor unfamiliar to Percival— it can’t be the Cruciatus curse. Exhaustion can deplete magic, making it harder to use. It shouldn’t take it away, remove it with the precision to make it feel it was never there.

Then it doesn’t matter because Grindelwald noticed Percival doesn’t give a damn about what he has to say—

  
  


Opening his eyes, Percival allows himself the time to breathe. The hitching laugh that escapes wasn’t meant to be voiced, but the pain pulls a hysterical giddiness to the forefront of Percival’s mind. It is so fucking ludicrous— he is being tortured because Gellert Grindelwald wants his job.

Why?

Plenty of people want his position, but Percival doubts if any of their reasons lineup with a dark wizard’s. It’s not as if Grindelwald needs entertainment— there must be something. But recalling his work is more difficult than it should be… although, maybe Percival could cut himself some slack.

He was, in fact, tortured.

Percival laughs again, a rasping, mirthless sound. He doesn’t want to move and reawaken all the injuries he is ignorant of at the moment. With so much feedback from his nerves, it is impossible to distinguish one source of agony from the next. The headache plaguing him is gone because it melted into everything else.

The faded edges of his vision are inconsequential compared to the throbbing in his knee, the perpetual grating of ribs. Mercy Lewis, fractured ribs are fucking awful. He waits, gritting his teeth as air hisses between them. Each breath is cut short by the tight bands of pain around his chest. No punctures yet, as far as he can tell. The blood in his mouth is not foamy from leaking into his lungs. No— it has coagulated along his gums and under his tongue, pooling in the time when he was unconscious.

He pushes out clotted blood out of his mouth with his tongue, impressed he hasn’t bitten through it yet. Percival turns his head— slowly as to not cause vertigo— and spots a glass sitting on the stone five feet from him.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

He glowers at the glass, It is one of his nice cut glass ones, too. Percival would laugh at the dark wizard's gall if it wasn’t terrifying. Grindelwald is not a criminal prone to overconfidence— he will not make a mistake due to hubris.

Now Percival has to check to see if Grindelwald really thinks he is stupid enough to fall for that. Getting up is harder than he thought it would be. Percival bites back a cry of pain when he moves his wrist. He forgot it was broken. Instead, he uses his elbow and opposite hand as leverage to sit up.

He stops breathing for a few seconds as he reopens the half-clotted gashes along his back. All this blood loss is half the reason he is weak. The other half is an insidious combination of hunger, dehydration, and illegal curses.

For whatever reason Grindelwald left the lights on— it feels like an electric light without a source. All the better to see the impressive amount of crimson soaking his shirt. Portions of Percival’s slacks are darker than black now the fabric soaked up the blood, too. It is limited to the few inches from the waistband. Maybe more on the other side where the gashes dripped blood down his back.

Reaching for the glass of water is difficult and causes more pain it should be worth. Percival learns, in span of the time and effort it takes, a ligament or tendon in his left knee was ruined to the point of uselessness, he has at least three more fractured ribs on top of the few already injured from the Wisconsin ambush, two of his fingers are broken on his right hand, and so are a few bones in his left wrist. Not including the wounds of the slashing curse

If Grindelwald wants to discourage Percival from moving, he’s doing a damn good job. The desire to back into a corner and sleep weighs on him. His head hurts, he wants to throw up or rip out his throat— either would help. The Cruciatus curse’s effects linger, making his hands shake as Percival picks up the glass and peers at it.

“I cannot believe this,” Percival mutters, incredulous. His voice is hoarse and faint, scratching his raw throat. Talking aggravates his gouged cheek but the twinge is so inconsequential he barely notices it.

He pours a small puddle of the water on the floor, then uses the trails of blood running along the underside of his arm all the way to his fingers to put a few drops of blood in it. He counts to sixty, sees nothing has happened. Then Percival leans forwards and spits in it.

“Who does he think I am?” Percival growls, watching the ‘water’ make tiny bubbles as whatever Grindelwald put in it react with his saliva. At least it isn’t because of his blood. He really wants to wash off the blood on his face. It is starting to itch as it dries, but he wouldn’t risk it if the water could drug him.

Percival regrets trying to take off his ruined shirt immediately.

His wrist and broken fingers do not want to cooperate to undo the buttons. It takes multiple tries for each one, his fingers trembling and refusing to close to hold small objects. Anxiety seeps into his chest and mind— Percival hisses, reminding himself to stay calm. Panicking won’t help him. Grindelwald is looking for weakness Percival cannot give him.

His shirt is stuck to the gashes, in pieces, and requires the kind of motion and twisting his ribs protest with sickening potency. But Percival clenches his jaw until it hurts, moves slowly, and forces himself to breathe regardless. Getting his arms out of the sleeves is the worst of it, and then he pulls to separate the silk from his skin.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice tight with pain. Laying the shirt on the floor exposes the exact paths of the gashes through his skin. Percival traces a few of the longer ones, scowling as he rips the shirt into strips.

A few of the less blood stained ones turn pink as Percival dips them into the drugged water and carefully scrubs away the blood on his chin and neck. The coolness of the water isn’t good for him in a cold room, but he cannot abide dirtiness. Grindelwald isn’t going to let him die of something as mundane as hypothermia.

Wet hair is a no-go. Despite the horrible clumped hair at the back of his head, Percival won’t risk giving himself a cold when his ribs are in this state. Pneumonia would be easy to usher on in these conditions. And with it will come a decrease in ability to fight back.

Being a pain in Grindelwald’s ass will have painful— hopefully not crippling— consequences.

 

Percival doesn’t have high hopes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry this took a while. School is back in session and while I'm having a blast, I don't have much time to write. Again, if you have any critiques/thoughts, I'd love to hear them! <3


	4. Despicable Confidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grindelwald is getting tired of Percival's shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS:
> 
> Violence, Torture, Description of injuries and violence, Manipulation.

He isn’t sure how many hours Grindelwald left him alone, but it wasn’t enough.

The end of one curse and the start of another overlaps until Percival can’t breathe. His lungs seize and his heart beats arrhythmic in his chest. Grindelwald’s temper flares and with it, so do the injuries. Percival is close to delirium, the strength of each curse unraveling a little of his resolve each time. More than once Grindelwald mutters spells to keep Percival from choking on his tongue or the blood building up in his throat and nose.

But after another hour, Grindelwald has to wait between curses. He listens to Percival’s heart and lungs to judge if they will fail after another strangled wheeze. The agony is too much— Percival’s jaw radiates pain from teeth clenching and grinding together. Pain rebounds from his jaw to his temples. To his eyes before sweeping down his spine armed with fire-hot claws. Shorts out nerves. Frays the muscles in complete tetanus when the Cruciatus Curse induces convulsions.

This time—

Percival chokes and gasps, silent. Clutches at his chest. Something is wrong, wrong, _wrong—_  looks to Grindelwald. There must be something in Percival’s panicked gaze because Grindelwald’s expression shifts, eyes narrowing. The curse eases. The crushing sensation gets worse. Percival tries to speak— he can't breathe. He can't breathe! He can't— His heart rots and his lungs petrify.

The absence of his pulse pounding in his ears is awful—

Grindelwald approaches, severing the curse but it doesn't help. Percival’s chest fills with liquid but it is also hollow, smashed. Shards of agony pierce his heart. The muscles of his chest and abdomen contract as if they could goad Percival’s heart into beating through association. He can't breathe—

Grindelwald’s wordless gesture sends a spark jumping from his hand to Percival’s chest—

 

Again—

  
  


Stopping Percival's heart must have been unintentional because the dark wizard does not cast another curse. Percival’s breathless cries turn into ragged but audible gasps. The repeated use of the Cruciatus Curse boils his blood in his veins and arteries, but it is thick syrup in his heart. The force it takes Percival’s heart to contract is too much. His heartbeat should race to keep up with the blood loss and lack of oxygen.

Mercy Lewis, how can he survive this? Percival isn’t as young as he used to be. Should there be an age restriction on the targets of repeated castings of the Cruciatus Curse?

If he had the ability to laugh, he would. There is already a dangerous disconnect between his mind and his body. Both too close and too far away for Percival to have any interest in what happens. He can’t keep track of real pain versus the rebounding effects of old curses.

Does it matter?

Each breath wades through fatigue and pain before Percival can draw air into his lungs in shallow, short inhales. The pause between breathing out and taking another breath lengthens. As he forces his eyes open again and again, black dots dance across his vision.

Drawing air into his lungs is starting to be too much work. Once it wasn't exertion to breathe but the curses and spells destroyed any energy he had. Lightheadedness, thankfully, softens the edges of the worst agony. He has no inclination to move.

“Percival, please.” Grindelwald murmurs, kneeling next to him. Cold fingers press on Percival’s neck over his carotid artery. Foam bubbles in the back of his throat. Percival tries to clear it but manages a weak cough instead. One of his ribs has shifted in, putting dangerous, agonizing pressure on his left lung. It threatens to puncture the pleural cavity and drown Percival in his own blood.

“You’re in no state to continue.” Grindelwald’s voice is smooth as poisoned honey. Concern flows off his tongue as easily as the Cruciatus Curse.

“I don’t want to treat you like this.”

The defiant, worthless laughter is gone. Percival doesn't say anything— only coughs and gasps. His heart must be beating strong enough to satisfy the dark wizard because Grindelwald stops checking his pulse.                     

Heterochromatic eyes study him, seeking something in Percival’s expression. But as much pain as Percival is in, rage gathers in him. He's not going to yield— not like this. If Grindelwald wants _anything_ from him, he'll have to get it while Percival fights him every step of the way.

Stubbornness is both a vice and a virtue. Percival knows he is notorious for that particular aspect of his character.

Grindelwald tilts his head in consideration, then raises his wand. Percival scolds himself for flinching. He makes up for it by leveling a glare at Grindelwald.

The smile Grindelwald returns masks its sharpness.

“Let's try something else, see if you're more cooperative.” He says, calm and disinterested. Percival braces himself, reassures himself there can't be anything worse than the Cruciatus Curse— if there is, he can live with it. The fucking bastard won’t kill him yet.

“Tell me the name of the goblin bellhop in the West wing elevator.”

Percival blinks, caught off guard by Grindelwald’s obscure question.

“...what?” His voice is a faint croak.

Grindelwald’s smile thins in annoyance, but his patience remains. “Answer me.”

There isn't technically anything wrong with answering such a question. But on principle… Percival cannot allow himself to give in even on this. It is superfluous details now, state secrets later.

“No.”

Percival eyes his wand in the dark wizard's hand, preparing himself for more pain. Percival doesn’t like having Grindelwald looming over him, not when he is unable to get up off the floor. It is unsettling to have Grindelwald so close to him.

It must be the pain addling Percival’s brain. There is a dreamy quality to everything around him. As if it is seconds away from ripping apart reality to plunge him straight into a nightmare.

Sighing, Grindelwald runs a hand through his white hair. No curse flashes from Percival’s wand. Tense, Percival holds his breath. A few splatters of dried blood stand out on Grindelwald’s hands from the violent coughing fits Percival has on occasion.

“I’ll pretend you said ‘Red’ for your benefit,” says Grindelwald, inexplicably. Until a controlled gesture of Percival’s traitorous wand follows Grindelwald’s words.  

It's so much worse— Percival can't hide the sigh of relief when Grindelwald mends a few of his fractured ribs. _Mercy Lewis,_ the absent pain is more terrible than anything Grindelwald has done to him. Percival wants to not be in agony anymore. He is sick of it— physically and mentally sick of it all.

Offering a way to get rid of the pain clinging to him is too tempting. But if… no, he shouldn’t. Percival clenches his jaw, closes his eyes and allows the other injuries ground him. He cannot. He must not start to cave now-

“Tell me the name of your Chief Auror.”

Percival hesitates, falters.

It should be a trick— something hidden in Grindelwald’s motive to ask because the answer is public knowledge. Percival opens his eyes, staring into the dark wizard’s face. Grindelwald’s expression is as earnest and sincere as he can probably get. Percival isn’t in the right state of mind to try and pick apart an international criminal’s thoughts and actions. But he can’t find anything wrong… it chills him.

Grindelwald shakes his head, amused. “Still wary, Percival? Again, I’ll pretend you told me it’s Eduardo A. Limus”

Muttering a spell under his breath, Grindelwald heals the long gash across Percival’s stomach. The one that keeps bleeding because it never has the time it needs to clot between the coughing and the seizures. The line of agony disappears, no longer cutting Percival in half.

More unnerving is Grindelwald’s ease in healing. To undo those injuries would leave a capable wizard shaky and out of breath— even if they were proficient in healing.

Percival isn’t. His magic is suited to combat. If he had access to his magic, he could give Grindelwald a run for his money for a while at least.

Grindelwald has no difficulties causing injuries and taking them away. (But maybe the caster can undo his own work with minimal effort?)

“What’s your middle name?”

Percival clears his throat. If Grindelwald will continue to ask for simple answers like this, Percival might as well capitalize on the opportunity. He needs to watch himself, knowing the dark wizard is looking to lull him into making a mistake.

“...Gordon.” Percival whispers, hoarse.

Grindelwald’s smile ignites doubt in Percival’s mind that he made the right decision. The pattern continues— magic soothes away the deep ache in his teeth. If Grindelwald will eventually fix the torn ligament in Percival’s knee, then he might be able to plan later…

“Where were you born?”

“Here.”

Grindelwald doesn’t move. Percival looks at him, pauses, then amends his answer to “New York City.” And in return, another fractured rib heals. Closing his eyes for a brief moment, Percival relishes the lessening pressure on his lungs.

“What house were you in?”

“Wampus,” Percival says, cautious and suspicious. Another gash stitches together into new skin, devoid of scar tissue. He takes a shaky breath.

“But you were chosen by two.”

“Yes.”

The gouge in his cheek itches until nothing is left of the injury.

“Is it rare?”

“...perhaps.”

Gone is the burning in his right shoulder. (Percival can’t remember exactly what happened to it, actually. But pain is pain and if Grindelwald will take it away… fine).

“How old were you when you became an Auror?”

“Twenty.”

Percival’s sigh is audible when the plaguing headache fades.

And on it goes, questions limited to information Grindelwald could get by asking the right people. Or by reading the damn tabloids which like to dig into Percival’s personal life. Questions about Ilvermorny, his Auror training, his employees (Percival doesn’t answer those, waiting for a curse that never comes).

When Grindelwald asks a question Percival won’t answer, he moves to the next without hesitating. He heals all Percival’s ribs, causing Percival to relax against the cold stone in relief. His knee no longer throbs, but the few broken fingers remain.

(There are so many injuries— so many small cuts and deep bruises Percival didn't know he _had_   fading way with each answer. His scratchy throat, the pain in his back caused by the unnatural positions the Cruciatus Curse throws him in before his muscles give out. The disgusting grinding in his wrist ebbs, but doesn't disappear— it must be a stubborn break).

Percival takes a few seconds after each question to decide if he should answer, understandably wary. Grindelwald never pries, either. When Percival makes it clear a topic is forbidden, the dark wizard lets it drop without consequence.

What is he getting out of this?

Percival gives answers that are curt and only concern inconsequential details about his life. Some are odd, some too personal for comfort, but none cross the threshold to MACUSA’s inner workings. No safe passcodes, no digging into the investigation system. It bothers Percival he can’t figure out _why_ Grindelwald is doing this— but he’s not complaining.

The absence of pain tries to convince Percival to sleep. He hasn't slept well since… how long has it been? There is no easy way to judge. Hunger is no clock— Percival was in too much pain to notice his empty stomach. Even then, he's physically exhausted.

He’s so tempted, so tired—

“What about your sister, Victoria?” Grindelwald asks, tone deceptively mild.

Percival jerks alert, snarling. “Fuck off.”

If Grindelwald thinks Percival is going to give out personal information about others, he has miscalculated Percival’s willingness to play along. People always forget Percival has a sister— because, for most of their adult lives, Victoria refused (rightly so) to talk to him.

“I understand. You’re protective of her, even though she hates you for denouncing her husband. But I heard you’ve started to reconnect with them— you have a beautiful niece and nephew.”

Horrified, Percival freezes. The dark wizard’s smile is vicious. Grindelwald’s harsh expression does not match his tone.

“Amelia starts her second year soon, doesn’t she? Wampus, just like her uncle. She thinks highly of you,” Grindelwald continues as fear chills Percival’s heart.

“Doesn’t she keep all the letters you send her and stores them under her mattress? It’s a shame you missed her growing up, but there is still Thomas. He just had his third birthday this past spring.”

 **_“Stay away from them.”_ ** Percival snarls, masking panic. How close has he gotten? How does he know such personal information about the children? Victoria is unyielding in her decision to keep Amelia and Thomas out of any echoing politics that might follow her. (She is almost never bothered by anyone who knows Percival, having removed herself from the family name long ago).

“They won’t notice a difference between us, Percival.” Grindelwald sneers. “Not when I’m done with you.”

“Do you really think anyone will notice you're gone? Your own sister won't see a change; she doesn't like you enough to believe my personality is not yours.”

Percival tries to breathe through the fear tightening around his throat. Ignores Grindelwald’s mocking jabs, still stuck on the idea Grindelwald wants to replace him— it's not a farce. The dark wizard believes he can do it.

( _He'll get away with it,_ thinks the same part of Percival's brain that wants to cave whenever the start of the word “Crucio” crosses Grindelwald’s lips. The part of him screaming in agony and fear, silent and separate from the rest).

“Although, I wonder if you would still choose to keep them safe if it was between them and MACUSA. If I threatened to kill your sister’s family— starting with her children— if you didn’t tell me what I wanted to know.”

Percival can’t speak, can’t beg the dark wizard to leave his sister alone. Victoria is a powerful witch, but she cannot protect her husband and children from Grindelwald if he decides to come after her— not when she isn’t ready for him.

Magic yanks Percival up. Grindelwald grabs him by the throat and pulls Percival in close. Grindelwald’s two colored eyes are alight with anger.

“You still wouldn’t tell me. Your oath as Director of Magical Security means you are obligated to remain silent if I were to bring them here and murder them in front of you.” Grindelwald hisses into Percival’s ear, ignoring Percival’s strangled moan.

“I’d start with Thomas. How Victoria would scream at you to save her son. You won’t even consider it because one life cannot weigh more than the good of the country. A mother wouldn't understand your decision.”

Percival trembles in fury. Chokes on an awful sound of terror— a sharp growl escapes his throat instead.

“Amelia would be crying, hysterical. She’s old enough to understand death, isn’t she? I wouldn’t make it quick, either. You’ll have to listen to her screams fade,” Grindelwald murmurs.

“Victoria would try to hurt you— I’d have to keep her away. Maybe I wouldn’t kill her. Just her mudblood husband and her children before I let her go. If you thought she hated you before, Percival, she might destroy you now.” He paints a vivid scenario Percival all too easily imagines.

Thomas dead on the stone, curly blond hair soaked in his own blood—

Amelia crying for help, green eyes wide in childlike disbelief at the agony. Grindelwald would prevent Victoria and her husband William from being able to comfort their children—

 **“You won't harm them.”** Percival spits, a furious order overlaying the fear shredding his stomach. He is nauseous at the thought—

“I know in theory you can’t break your oath, but you might be tempted. She wouldn’t know I would cast a silencing charm on you beforehand, ensuring you won’t talk. Punishment for refusing me is only fair. You would be more than willing afterward, I am sure.”

Grindelwald shoves him— Percival doubles over, unable to breathe. Tears splatter on the floor, on his dried blood. The dark wizard attempts to breach Percival’s mental walls. Shaking, Percival resists. In doing so, he confirms Grindelwald’s point.

The life of one cannot be prioritized over the many. Torture and duress cannot force him to violate certain oaths, but memories will reveal what he cannot.

“But I won’t do that, Percival. You’ll break by the end of the week.” Grindelwald smiles, then disapparates.

Percival screams into the empty room, full of helpless rage and fear. Clutches his head and sinks to the floor. He doesn't bother trying to muffle his sobs, grief-stricken with the knowledge Grindelwald could slaughter Victoria’s family with ease.

Grindelwald is a greater threat to the wizarding community than they have ever seen. Family is only family. Even if—

—if Percival talked after Grindelwald killed someone close to him, it would be a betrayal to the entire wizarding community. Not to mention the danger he poses to every no-maj.

The dark wizard's confidence may be enough to prevent Victoria's involvement. Grindelwald must see Percival’s determination is starting to waver. There is not an absolute in resistance— he's starting to crack.

From pain and fear and hunger and thirst and the sickness of everything plaguing his body and mind.

“Forgive me for what I cannot do,” Percival says to the stone as a quiet plea for forgiveness. He is numb. His body is cold and weak. Never has Percival wanted a warm meal and to sleep in his own bed more in his life.

He falls asleep, better described as a collapsing halt than anything resembling rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyy sorry for the lateness. School is kicking my ass! I'm still writing, tho :)


	5. Diplococcus pneumoniae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Come on, Percival. You need to figure this out!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:
> 
> Graphic depictions of violence, other general warnings in the tags.

Victoria screams at him, eyes wild with rage and grief. Percival sits on the floor, complacent and mute. Grindelwald forces him to watch Thomas bleed out from a poorly slit neck.

The toddler's cries are wet, choked. It makes Percival’s hair stand on end— he screams into the forced silence but not a sound escapes his mouth. Horror twists his organs out of place but Percival must look bored because Victoria's insults are targeted at him.

“What _monster_ would watch?! **_Percival_** _, please!_ Save him, don't just fucking sit there! Oh my god, _oh god._ Baby, come here. Come here, Thomas— Percival, that's my baby y _ou cold bastard!_ It's Thomas— you're his uncle, Percival!” Victoria’s voice is raw and shrill in hysteria, screaming through the tears pouring down her face.

Grindelwald waits in the far corner, arms crossed over his chest. Sadistic amusement shows a sliver of his teeth when he feels the weight of Percival’s hatred-heavy gaze. He stands where Percival can see him, relaxed and feigning disinterest. He must hear the panic in Percival’s head and the devastation happening before him.

The dark wizard watches as Thomas dies.

Fury and visceral terror fill Percival’s heart and lungs. Grindelwald is a fucking monster. A disgusting, perverse monster wearing a wizard’s appearance and relishing the pain trapped in the room with it. If emotions could get him out of this, Percival could break through Grindelwald’s silencing spell and immobility curse. But he can’t. His magic is gone. Worthless.

When Grindelwald yanks Amelia from her mother's side, Victoria’s legs give out. Percival wants to scream, beg for forgiveness—

“ **No!** Please don't hurt her— **Percival, tell him!** You heartless machine, tell him _please!_ What is more important than their lives?! _Percival, please don't let him—_ ** _fucking say something!_ ** _”_ Her words cut Percival’s soul— he was warned. He could have prevented this but it’s too late to go back—

Amelia goes down. Her intestines spill out the neat gash Grindelwald opens across her abdomen. She wails, trying to hold her organs in with her small hands. A child shouldn't be near all that red.

The horrible keen Victoria makes is nothing compared to the cry Grindelwald won't let Percival voice. The insults and hysterical begging blends into a blur of unrestrained grief. The sound of a mother forced to watch her children die a painful death before her.

Percival has to watch, frozen, as Amelia crawls over to him. Crawls into Percival’s lap and lies there with her blood and body heat warming him. Asks him, in her faint voice, if he would, please, help her fix this.

“Please, Mr. G-graves. P-please, help me?” She asks, so formal and quiet. She’s so brave for trying not to cry inconsolably.

“I haven't- haven't l-learned how to d-do healing-” a sob “healing mag-g-ic yet. Please?”

She buries her face into the crook of Percival's elbow. He wants to throw up— blood soaks into his slacks and coats his skin. It is the warmest he's been in weeks—

Percival needs to pick her up, hold her close and comfort her. But he can't move to show her he cares she's bleeding out on him. Amelia shakes with soft whimpers, bloody fingers crumpling his suit jacket.

“Uncle Percy, _p-please—_ ”

Percival wakes with a jolt, slamming his back into the wall. Leans forward and throws up nothing. Gags, fear filling his throat and veins. He trembles, collapses to the floor, and tried to get control over his emotions.

It was a nightmare.

A nightmare of a real threat.

Percival clenches his fist to feel his broken fingers flare in agony, redirecting his focus as he hisses out a pained breath. He needs to calm his nerves.

Victoria will destroy Grindelwald before he got near her children. A mother's instincts cannot be challenged. Victoria would be the most powerful one in the family if she had any interest in formal training. She wouldn't let Grindelwald do anything—

But if the dark wizard wears Percival’s face…

Breathe—

He starts to cough like his lungs are out for vengeance. Percival is surprised his body isn’t failing him… it’s been at least two days of no food and water, of never-ending agony and his heart has only stopped once.

His mouth is dry and tacky from dehydration. Percival tries to swallow the little blood in his mouth from his split lip. His tongue feels twice its size. He clears his scratchy throat and ends up coughing so hard his ribs remind him they aren't fully healed. (Of course Grindelwald didn't fix them perfectly). Percival tries to stop—

Coughs and coughs and coughs.

If anyone could die from coughing so much, Percival is a good candidate. Weak as hell, he tries to clear his lungs of old blood before the non-stop coughing breaks a rib and punctures his lung again. Maybe he'll asphyxiate before Grindelwald comes back— what he would pay to see the dark wizard's expression if it happened.

Fuck, he shouldn't make himself laugh. He's short of breath already. If Percival had more sense, if his mind wasn't out of sorts from the curses burning through him, he would worry for his own sanity.

Going insane would put a damper on Grindelwald’s plans. Digging through someone's fractured mind is dangerous. Hell, doing it to someone unwilling can be fatal. Percival takes a deep, steadying breath— in time to start coughing with renewed vigor.

It’s the kind of cough that would make anyone in earshot turn to look in alarm. A deep, wet cough that won’t stop. The only respite is a wheezing, strained gasp between them. Percival would have tears in his eyes from the pain if he was hydrated.

He can't get a word in edgewise, much less breathe. So much for trying to describe his experiences and how royally pissed off he is with everything. Whoever looks at these will probably understand the situation if Percival makes it out alive. There isn't much to add besides he's so tired of the pain and waiting. He knows no one is coming to get him—

It has been at least thirty-six hours. If no one has noticed him gone they won't find him now. Why should anyone check on him? He doesn't encourage it. Sera respects his privacy (and his pride) and will not try to appear too concerned during the week he is supposedly spending at home, recovering from a brain injury.

(Ha!

Percival can't decide if Grindelwald has been somehow healing the injury or if the healers lied to him. Did they underestimate how long it would take him to recover? Or Percival’s health is so spectacularly poor right now he thinks he's doing well, everything considered).

His Aurors are rightfully distant from him. Percival isn't sure exactly how many of them care for him. He has always been careful to maintain a professional distance from his employees. Appearing to favor certain Aurors over another can unravel into politics and bias the department does not need. For the sake of the department's functionality, Percival rather would be seen as a hard-ass than as a boss who is too friendly and lets emotions and friendships cloud rational.

This way he can focus on his job and not the daily lives of his Aurors— he cares, of course. As much as people claim otherwise, Percival does have the ability to empathize. But he has no use for office gossip. He wants results and for his Aurors to be able to go home in one piece every night.

Not to mention Percival has never talked about his own life outside of MACUSA— Sera argues he doesn't have one and she's right. Percival doesn't understand why people think he's miserable. Can't a man enjoy his job? It's no one's business but his own what he does in his spare time. If he spends it working then it's his decision.

Percival has to cough again but this one tears up his throat instead of reducing him into another coughing fit. He looks at the speckled of blood he sprayed on his hand and sighs—

Then coughs for a minute straight.

“God damn it!” He gets out, lightheaded. He rests his forehead against the cool stone— and then blinks. He is warm. Warm in this freezing cold room in only his slacks and his—

Wait. Didn’t he have socks on?

He must have had them.

Percival groans and presses a hand to his temple. His hair is dirty— Percival fucking hates uncleanliness. He is always well groomed for a reason, for fuck’s sake. Appearances are important for the field and his position.

He can’t remember. He took his shoes off when he got home— that is not debatable. But his socks…?

It shouldn’t matter but Percival’s nerves take the chance to act up. Don't be absurd, he snaps at himself. They're fucking socks. Grindelwald is taking his life away from him and Percival’s mind decided to worry about something inconsequential.

He sighs again.

Sleep won't return to him— not after that nightmare. Percival rubs his face, beard stubble rough against the palms of his hands. It's about two days growth. He has never gone more than a few days of his adult life without being clean shaven.

Facial hair shouldn't bother him like this, but Percival is particularly irritable.

_Get a hold of yourself!_

Percival closes his eyes, counts to six hundred— in his head because he's still coughing. Allows the fear and anger to wash over him, then imagines it evaporating away. He cannot let emotion cloud his judgement. Digs for the steel-tempered focus he is known for, what makes him damn good at his job and why he can shut down criminal rings within days.

Discomfort and pain are easily ignored during a case, so he treats his own abduction like one. He has worked in law enforcement all his life— there is nothing new about this situation except for the criminal. There is no room for mistakes, but Percival has had pressing deadlines before.

If he can figure out what Grindelwald wants before the dark wizard can get it, there may be a chance to prevent Grindelwald from succeeding. But to Percival’s frustration, he doesn’t know where to begin besides the basics.

Working off Grindelwald’s files from memory (Percival has stared at them long enough) leads to nothing. Gellert Grindelwald is a dangerous terrorist leading an underground army of fanatics hell-bent on fighting the International Statute of Secrecy. The promise of overthrowing the Statute blinds witches and wizards. They ignore the damage and panic Grindelwald’s ‘revolution’ would cause. MACUSA has apprehended over two dozen couples who courted chaos by thinking Grindelwald promises equality between wizardkind and non-magical people.

America’s laws are stricter than most— and Percival doesn’t necessarily agree with all them anymore— but it is his job to enforce them. If and when Congress changes the law, Percival will realign himself and his Aurors to obey any new legislation. But with the growing panic surrounding Grindelwald’s uprising, the Statute’s laws have been doubled down. No witch or wizard (and certainly not Percival himself) can show any amount of tolerance and keep their job in government.

Grindelwald is not out for “the greater good”. Enslavement of the no-maj population is inherently evil. If anything, Grindelwald made it nigh impossible for anyone to challenge the Statute anymore. He's a murderer seeking power under the pretense of charity and goodwill.

But now the dark wizard has honed in on Percival. For what purpose? And why, specifically, him? Grindelwald admitted he needed access to Percival’s memories to replace him. The reason for taking Percival’s place, however, is not clear.

A criminal of Grindelwald’s infamy should stay as far away from law enforcement as possible— he cannot be doing this only for camouflage. Grindelwald could take anyone's identity. The Director of Magical Security is a high-visibility position.

Percival’s duty is to uphold the law and track down criminals. Why would Grindelwald want a part of MACUSA? He can operate through crime circles with no obstacles—

Unless Grindelwald is convinced Percival has access to something the dark wizard needs. Then Percival won't much help. There is nothing useful MACUSA has in reserve. Dangerous artifacts and objects get destroyed after processing— and if they are waiting to be processed, Percival cannot walk off with them.

There was an entire page of Grindelwald’s file dedicated to the Deathly Hallows and the dark wizard's obsession with the legends. Percival doubts their existence, but even if they were real, MACUSA does not have any of the three items.

 

Why him?

If Percival can get Grindelwald to admit to his level of planning, it could give him an idea of how invested the dark wizard is in this. The Wisconsin ambush was premeditated. The cell was ready for him, and somehow Grindelwald took away Percival’s magic. Most terrifying of all, Grindelwald mastered human transfiguration until he looked like Percival’s reflection.

Frustrated, Percival resolves to ask Grindelwald what the hell he’s up to. Grindelwald might be candid— but Percival will expect lying and trickery before he gets an answer. If he gets one at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait! The next chapter is about 70%, so I should be done with it in the next two weeks :)
> 
> I'd love to hear what you thought! <3


	6. False Civility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temper, Percy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> Nothing special. Grindelwald being a dick, as per usual. 
> 
>  
> 
> ["It's almost done", she said. "I was 70% done", she said. But then she thought, what if I have Percival, the snippy bastard, get into an argument with Grindelwald?]

 

It gets harder to stay awake.

He has to fight fatigue with every breath.

  
  
  
  
  


Percival lies on the floor, head resting in the crook of his arm to block out the light. He doesn’t hear or see Grindelwald appear, but something visceral in him bristles.

“What the fuck do you want?”

His own voice is weak and rough to his ears. Instead of sounding irritated, Percival’s tone is flat with exhaustion. With his face still turned to the floor, Percival cannot see the dark wizard's expression. He guesses it is amused since no punishing curse follows Percival’s offensive greeting.

Percival waits out the silence for a few minutes until he hears Grindelwald approach.

“Percival—”

“I'm serious.” Percival interrupts, pushing himself off the floor to sit up. The shock of seeing his own face staring back at him makes him cough.

It is the same deep, wet cough plaguing him. Percival glares at Grindelwald’s shoes— those are _his_ oxfords. Anger boils, hot and acidic, but Percival cannot do anything. Not when he struggles to breathe.

His lungs and diaphragm are exhausted from trying to force out sickness. Residual blood clots in areas it shouldn't. From the Cruciatus Curse causing Percival’s muscles and organs to strain and tear, from the sharp edges of his previously broken ribs scratching the pleural lining.

He sees the bruises spreading under his skin, creeping along his ribcage. His broken fingers are numb and discolored. Percival’s left knee is still tender, but without the swelling that indicated torn ligaments. The serious head injury that got him into this mess in the first place has taken the backburner to offer a constant undercurrent of vertigo and photosensitivity.  

Mercy Lewis, if Percival gets out of here medical will have a field day. He cannot tell if his constant shaking is from pain, cold, dehydration, or the Curse.

Grindelwald politely waits for Percival to stop coughing up his lungs. Steeling his composure, Percival makes himself look up at glare into Grindelwald’s face. The smug bastard.

How disconcerting it is to see his face outside of a mirror or photograph. The dark wizard wears one of Percival’s charcoal grey suits with a black tie. Critical, Percival looks for any hint of difference but he finds nothing amiss.

Not a strand of hair is out of place, not a crease wrinkles his clothes. His shoes are perfectly polished, catching the light in the cell. Seeing his clothes on someone else enhances Percival’s perception of his own wealth. Grindelwald is not a wizard short on money, but he cannot afford what Percival can. As an international criminal, Grindelwald cannot live a life of luxury on the run.

Maybe money is part of this?

Grindelwald’s— no, his own— piercing stare is hard enough to cut granite. Percival knows he intimidates people, but to be on the receiving end of his infamous cold mask is a new kind of unnerving.

But Percival is the one who perfected that glare, so he maintains eye contact through the familiar scratch of unease in his chest.

Percival watches himself shrug out of his suit jacket, conjure a hook to place it on. He closes his eyes for a moment, takes a ragged breath. And starts to cough again.

Grindelwald sighs.

A glass of water appears in front of Percival. Grindelwald must be annoyed by Percival's constant inability to do anything but try to clear his lungs.

Fuck it.

Percival picks it up (carefully, with his broken fingers), and manages to take a sip between coughs. He lets it sit in his mouth, erasing the dryness. Gulping the water down would make him sick even if instinct wants him to rush.

The threat of drugged water is inconsequential now. Percival will not last if the dark wizard pushes him to the brink of dehydration. He is not so proud as to believe he can overcome Grindelwald’s plans through stubbornness alone if his body is ruined.

“You should have seen the expression Picquery had when she saw you walk through the bullpen, Percival.” says Grindelwald in a conversational tone when Percival’s coughs ebb.

Percival does not dignify that with any sort of reaction but another cautious sip of water. The water is cold and crisp in his mouth like ice on a summer afternoon. It tastes like the best water he's ever had.

It is only deprivation.

“You shouldn't be at work for another week, but you would have tried to clock in Monday morning regardless of what you were told.” Grindelwald’s knowing smile is perverse on a borrowed face- Percival raises an eyebrow.

“May we talk about your… expectations?” Percival keeps the sarcasm out of his voice. Irritating Grindelwald when he's trying to get information will not be productive.

Grindelwald also raises an eyebrow— the desire to punch the dark wizard in the damn face increases tenfold.

“You need only ask,” replies Grindelwald, curious. He crouches, his borrowed gaze sharp with interest. Proving he's no idiot, Grindelwald draws Percival’s wand. His hand rests on his thigh but Percival knows better than to think the dark wizard's attention is lax.

“Is there any particular reason why you're doing this?” Percival gets his throat to work after a few more sips of water.

“Why I'm torturing you?” Grindelwald’s tone is despicably mild as if he is speaking down to a child.

Percival cannot help himself— he scoffs.

“No, I understand that part of … whatever this is.” Percival gestures to the cell with a loose sweep of his hand. “I want to know why you're bothering me to begin with.”

Both of Grindelwald’s eyebrows climb higher on his forehead.

“I’m ‘bothering you’?” He repeats with a hint of an incredulous smile at Percival’s blasé word choice.

“Call it professional curiosity,” Percival snaps. “If you're going to take my place you better fucking use it.”

If Percival’s foul outbursts of temper are weathering Grindelwald’s patience, there is no indication. The dark wizard appears to take it all in stride. He must recognize Percival’s waxing temper is a sign of his desperation.

A calculating gaze sweeps over Percival.

“You're an exceptionally intelligent wizard. Why don't you tell me what you think, director?” Grindelwald’s smile is less an expression of humor, more a baring of teeth.

Percival scowls.

“I think you're a psychopathic son-of-a-bitch who thinks I have something you want.”

Grindelwald remains silent.

“I cannot say if what you seek is only accessible to me, or if it flatters your ego to go up as high into the chain of command as possible. Either way, it must be related to MACUSA. And thus, someone else must know, too. Or will know very soon. My position requires me to make and keep secrets and oaths, but I answer to my team and superiors.” Percival pauses to cough and drink another mouthful of water.

He watches his stolen face, looking for a tic or tell to hint towards the truth. But the dark wizard's expression is impassive and blank.

“It must be something old, then, if it is related to an investigation. Or we've unknowingly taken something of yours. Perhaps it is pending to be destroyed. I am inclined to think it is the former, as you want my memories. You do not believe I know what you're after, hence the lack of direction you've given me.

“That is part of the reason you need to impersonate me. I don't believe you know where to look, either. You need time and the authority to search for it without interruptions. Unfortunately for you, you will have to sacrifice a significant amount of your time to do my job— or you'll be found out before you will succeed.”

Grindelwald chuckles. The malicious sound is alien in Percival’s voice.

“A good estimate, considering the lack of information,” praises Grindelwald, impressed. “There are many reasons for taking your place. Paramount of all, you are the one who would cause me the most trouble. Removing you and taking your place is the simplest option.”

“How dare I get in your way?” Percival mutters, peeved. He clears his throat to preempt another cough.

Grindelwald laughs, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug.

“It is a shame I cannot convince you to switch your loyalties, Percival. Your magical talent and intellect are unrivaled this side of the Atlantic.”

Percival glares as Grindelwald’s smile misses the mark of flattering.

“I would have enjoyed having a wizard of your caliber as a part of the organization.” The psychopath (damn him) actually sounds put-out Percival won't convert to his side.

“Unfortunately, that makes one of us.” Percival suppresses an eyeroll. Merlin’s beard, he’s worse than his mad fanatics.

“Hmm… what else have you put together? I'm curious to know.” Grindelwald prods. As he does, he plays with Percival’s wand, knowing Percival is keeping his peripheral vision locked on it. It is a deliberate threat.

Percival narrows his eyes, but yields. Letting Grindelwald hear the theories knocking around his still-frazzled brain cannot harm him. It is too late for that.

“Whatever your plan consists of, you've had time to work out the details. Your confidence in taking my place is telling. Since I doubt you personally spent time watching me within Woolworth, someone loyal to you is in close proximity to me. Willing or unwilling, they have been giving you the second-hand information you need to slip unnoticed in my place.” Percival breaks off in a coughing fit that lasts a while until his vision is spotty.

The emotion in Grindelwald’s dark eyes -fucking hell, it's difficult to look into his own face— is guarded surprise. It is the slightest tightening around the dark wizard's eyes, but Percival catches it.

Percival has spent too much of his life face to face with criminals to miss a change in demeanor.

“But you still need my memories, hence the self-designated deadline you've given yourself with I’ll ‘break within the week’. Did you intend for your spell to keep me down for long, or did you get lucky medical gave you a workable window of time?”

Pausing to drink, Percival returns his own humorless smile, then tips his head to Grindelwald.

“How accurate was I?” He asks, walking a line between aggressive and coy. Percival’s gall seems to leave the dark wizard speechless for a moment.

Grindelwald tosses his head back and laughs. Laughs as if Percival told him the raunchiest joke he ever heard.

“My, my, Percival. It's a pity retrospection won't get you out of here. I almost wish we had a fair duel— I think I might have underestimated your skill, even with my high opinion of you.”

Riled, Percival snarls. “I’d be willing to fight.”

“I know you would. It's why we can't— it would draw too much attention, tempted as I am. Even now, you're still capable of causing significant trouble if I slip.”

“At least you know to watch your fucking back,” Percival growls. They both know Percival will take any chance to strike Grindelwald dead where he stands.

The corner of Grindelwald’s mouth lifts in a lopsided smirk. He taps Percival’s wand against his thigh, gaze hardening. A viper waiting to strike.

“I am, director. You are not one to be underestimated.”

Percival feels a wave of invisible magic sweep through the room. Even without his own, it is easy to recognize the power of the spells woven into his prison.

It is the closest to a tic he gets. Confirmation Grindelwald checked the integrity of what must be a terrifying amount of spellwork keeping Percival trapped here. The pulse rustles the spells like ripples in a pool— the echoes brush over Percival’s skin and mind. Together, it's a jumble of static and a whisper of intent. He does not have the time nor focus to identify any.

When Percival turns his attention back to Grindelwald, the dark wizard is appraising him.

“Interesting. Are you usually this sensitive to magic?” Grindelwald asks. It is unusual if Grindelwald wasn't being overt. Percival’s never been without his own magic long enough to search for a hint of anyone else's. He's not oblivious to it, but Grindelwald must have been subtle.

“Only when I'm starving,” Percival snaps in response. “It's a conditional skill.”

Grindelwald makes a noise in his throat, between a sigh and a laugh. As if he's forgotten he's refused Percival food and water. (It certainly doesn’t help Percival tends to live off coffee and toast— he get distracted by work and food preparation is only an obstacle to more important matters).

“And I'm assuming the temper is a part of that.”

Percival twists his smile into something ugly. “It's only for you, doll—”

Grindelwald sends him reeling with a harsh backhand. Percival cries out, catching himself with too much weight on his broken fingers. The sudden yelp aggravates his lungs, forcing him to double over and clear the phlegm building up in his throat with harsh, wheezing coughs.

“Lecturing _me_ on temper, _Mercy Lewis.”_ Percival says under his breath once he can talk. Realizing as the words fall from his lips it probably wasn't the smartest thing to say.

Yet, Grindelwald's laughter is genuine. Percival glares at him, checking the inside of his cheek with his tongue. It wasn't hard enough to loosen teeth— and it could have been if Grindelwald put real power into it. There is only minimal bleeding where Percival’s teeth cut into his cheek.

The constant taste of copper is sickening. Percival spits bloody saliva onto the floor. Hunger is absent— his stomach is adverse to all the blood Percival has accidentally swallowed. It weakens him without the painful cramps of an empty stomach.

Small mercies.

“Do you have any idea what I'm looking for?”

Percival shrugs. “I don't think _what_ it is matters as much as how you're going to use it.”

“Oh?” The dark wizard enjoys this too much.

“America has very strict Statute of Secrecy laws, more so than most countries. Frankly, I've wondered why you haven't caused chaos here first instead of fucking around with Europe.” Percival licks his bottom lip, realizing it split open again and he has blood dripping down his chin.

“It has to be something powerful and dangerous to both scare nomajes and prevent the Auror department from covering it up. But you believe you can control its magic if you could find it.”

“I'd say your department would find me out, but there is a reason you were promoted to director at thirty, Percival.” Grindelwald studies him, a conspiratorial smirk showing teeth. “Your accuracy would be worrisome if I didn't have you here.”

Percival must be on the nose. Damn it! If he only had the right information and the ability to do something about it. The dark wizard saved his ass getting Percival out of the way.

“Tell me what it is you're looking for, then. I'm not going anywhere.” Being direct is Percival’s only approach— fooling Grindelwald requires more composure and planning that he is capable of at the moment.

Grindelwald tilts his head. “No.”

“Ah, so you are at not confident you can keep me here before you're done.” Percival refuses to allow a sliver of hope to misguide him. A healthy amount of acceptance will keep him sane. Hope can be crushed— easily, really. But he feels it latch onto his chest anyway.

“As I said, I do not want to underestimate you.” Grindelwald still plays close to his chest. A shame. Percival’s curiosity won't be sated— and if he somehow gets out or gets word to his Aurors, Grindelwald’s plan will live on borrowed time instead of being ruined.

Before Percival can say a smart remark, Grindelwald’s gaze drops. Frowning, the dark wizard stands.

“Someone’s at your door.” Annoyance passes over his expression in a flash, Grindelwald’s dark eyes narrowing in distaste. A gesture calls Percival’s suit jacket to Grindelwald’s arm.

He turns back to Percival.

“I hate to end our interesting conversation, but I must answer this.” He shrugs, like Percival’s life is an inconvenience to him. “We may talk later if you wish.”

Percival nods, voice dripping sarcasm. “It would be my pleasure.”

Grindelwald’s lips curve into a smile as he disapparates. The loud crack echoes in the room, rebounding off the walls, mocking him. The ease of disapparating is out of reach. Percival could apparate since he was thirteen— to not have such a simple spell within reach is infuriating.

The glass in Percival’s hand nearly slips from his unstable grasp, filled again with water. Frustration threatens to choke him. He almost throws the glass at a wall to watch it shatter. Spray shards across the room, giving his nerves an outlet.

Percival has been known to pace. Sera has told him it could be a good intimidation tactic: he glares holes through the floor, wears a line into the carpet or polishes stone. He will think for hours, pacing back and forth before the evidence boards or through the bullpen, lost in thought, letting conversation wash over him.

He cannot risk aggravating his still-tender knee. Nor can he waste the energy. Hunger erodes his strength, a slow blunting of defiance’s edge. Percival takes a cautious breath. Another, mindful of the tickling in his throat and chest to avoid coughing.

The water isn’t drugged— or it is slow acting. He nurses it for the next thirty minutes, savoring the parched sensation fading.

Who would be at his door?

Sera, most likely. Especially if Grindelwald tried to go to work today (Percival also would have ignored his time off— and Sera would have forced him to go home). Knowing Sera, she’s come to read him the Riot Act.

Percival freezes.

She wouldn’t notice a change, will she? Sera has known him for a long time, but even she wouldn’t think Grindelwald would do something as bold as talking Percival’s place. Hell, she probably has too much faith in Percival’s dueling skills to even think he would go down without a fight. Without some sort of sign he's been compromised.

If she does figure it out… Grindelwald would kill her. He is looking for suspicion all while everyone is oblivious.

Damn it all to fucking hell!

Growling, he throws the glass at the wall.

Instead of shattering, the glass bounces of the stone and rolls across the floor. Percival stares at it, momentarily stunned by the absurd amount of preparation Grindelwald has put into this. There is no way Percival can shatter the glass to use the shards as a weapon against himself or the dark wizard.

 

Percival cannot help it—

He laughs himself sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is not as angsty as it was planned to be because Percival and Grindelwald had to talk to each other.
> 
> But oh boy. Buckle up, kiddos. Here comes the pain train. 
> 
> Are you ready? Because Percival isn't.


	7. Impending Helplessness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The devil finds work for the idle mind— overthink everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:
> 
> Torture and description of injury. Not too graphic.

 

He spends hours agonizing over the Aurors killed in the ambush.

Part of his guilt is because it took him this long to remember Grindelwald killed others. (Percival knows he is preoccupied). There was no time to identify who lost their lives. As soon as he apparated Goldstein and himself there, Percival scrambled to conjure a shield to deflect the attack.

Because he was careless, Goldstein almost died.

Percival did not throw all his metaphorical weight behind the shield. Not when skill and finesse work instead. Most wizards and witches Percival duels are not a challenge to fight, resulting in a reluctance to use power when it is redundant.

He was too used to getting away with half the effort and Grindelwald blindsided him.

If Porpentina Goldstein died, Percival would have never forgiven himself.

Porpentina, while at times awkward and unsure of herself, has high potential. She is headstrong and loyal, which will help her gain confidence in her skills. Someone (hopefully not her past superiors) made Porpentina second guess herself. Her instincts, her head, and her heart are all in the right place to make a perfect Auror; Porpentina needs time to grow into her own skin.

Percival sees evidence of her improvements while she has been on the federal team. She is not as shy and doesn’t hesitate to offer her opinion anymore. Her dueling skills are above average— nothing stunning. But she is quick on her feet, clever, and willing to work with her fellow Aurors.

Maybe she isn’t the most ladylike of the female Aurors. It results in scorn from some of the … traditional men, but Percival doesn’t give a damn. Porpentina is good at her job and a positive influence on the team. Her light aura is refreshing in a field dominated by jaded Aurors like himself.

( “Good morning, Mr. Graves!”

Her cheery voice always greeted him in the morning during his walk through the bullpen to his office. Percival arrives at work at least an hour before the day shift. He does rounds of the different departments under his command. He often passes through the bullpen a quarter til nine with files under his arm from Storage and Records.

“Morning, Miss. Goldstein.” He replies with a slight nod of his head.

She either asked how he was— to which he always replied “fine”. Or she asked about work.

“Anything interesting for us?” She would ask, smile earnest and brown eyes alight with eagerness.

“Always.” )

If she died—

Percival has an obligation to all his Aurors to keep them safe— and to have favorites does not play out well. But Porpentina is not one of the Aurors who blends into the crowd. Who is content doing the bare minimum to stay in Percival’s good graces. She works hard and pushes herself harder.

_Her face pale, blood on her shaking hands and temple. Eyes wide with shock and horror when she pulls him away from the dead Junior. Percival cannot hear her speak. Only a screaming in his ears at odds with his swimming vision. The sharp pain of broken ribs, a searing fire at the back of his skull._

She called for backup— Merlin knows Percival was in no state to do it.

Which begs the question why Grindelwald didn’t kill everyone there. Pearson and whoever he brought was dead before Percival arrived. Porpentina would have been easy to overpower— especially while Percival was unconscious with a terrible head injury.

Percival was kept alive for obvious reasons. The dark wizard accurately guessed it would be too suspicious if Percival was the only one to walk away from the encounter. It grates his nerves to think one of his Aurors escaped with her life because Gellert Grindelwald had the foresight to plan for multiple outcomes.

It was a small comfort to hear his quick thinking saved Porpentina from serious injury. Sera was uncharacteristically cross with him when he was well enough to talk and sit up without passing out. The healers were not happy she pushed for his quick recovery. He was ornery and difficult until he pressured a nurse into apparating him home under threat of trying to do it himself. Not that he could. But they didn’t have to know his magic was depleted from too many potions and injury.

(“Percival, what the hell is wrong with you?!” Seraphina had snapped, after making sure a silencing charm was placed over the room to keep their conversation private. “Taken out in a duel? You’re better than that.”

Percival let out a wordless grumble, preoccupied with his skull-splitting headache and not at all in the mood to bicker. His head is in his hands with his eyes hidden from the light.

“What sort of carelessness have you allowed yourself to slip into? Do you know how bad it will look when people catch wind of this?! If the Director of Magical Security cannot handle Gellert Grindelwald in a duel, no one can.” She continues, heels clicking on the tile as she paced.

Would throwing up on her shoes stop her barrage?

Percival entertains the idea.

“I have to order your Aurors to conduct a manhunt without you. They’re going to be skittish because our best duelist and investigator is at home, resting, because you couldn’t be bothered to treat it as a serious call!” Her tongue is sharp- rarely does she turn on Percival. Because he rarely deserves it.

“From what I was told, it wasn’t even a duel. He caught you unawares and you couldn’t block the first spell.” Sera sighed so forcefully it sounds like a hiss. If Percival hadn’t known her for more than two decades, he wouldn’t understand her anger stems from fear.

“Goldstein— is she… she’s okay?” Percival wrangles his tongue enough to speak to his knees.

Seraphina pauses, her tone softening.

“Yes, she’ll live. A little battered, but nothing serious. The healers sent her home for the weekend.”

Sera joins him on the bed, sitting next to him so their bodies formed a line knee to hip to shoulder. She must have felt his involuntary shudder because she abandons the biting, well-earned lecture.

“Percival.”

“Hmm?”

Percival didn’t turn to look at her until she touched his shoulder— newly healed of scrapes and bone bruises and fractures. Her presidential mask is gone, replaced by the open concern of an old friend.

“I criticize you because I worry.” Seraphina says, as close to an apology as either of them ever gets with one another. They are too old to pretend they don’t mean what they say- even in anger.

Percival makes a noncommittal sound in his throat.

He knows she watches out for him in the best way she can— by riding his ass for any and all mistakes. It is fair Percival can count on her for her honesty, while Percival keeps Seraphina in line the same way. Through professional advice and personal needling.

Seraphina hugs him, gentler than she usually does. Mindful, no doubt, of his many injuries. Percival does not move his sore arms but rests his forehead on her shoulder. He is drained and exhausted.

“If you ever do something like that again, I will fire you. Are we clear?” She murmurs in his ear.

Usually, Percival laughs at her audacity. She would never dare— not when no one else is half as qualified to replace him.

But instead, he nods once.

She pulls away, concern etched into the crease between her eyebrows. Studies him with eyes as sharp as her crowned eagle patronus. Percival struggles to hide anything from her. Tonight— well, this morning— is not a time when he can even try.

His exhaustion, pain, grief, and self-focused anger is clear through his weary gaze and the tense set of his jaw. She brushes his hair back into place with her fingers.

“We need to review your memories, then you can go home to rest. I don’t know how long it will take—”

“Standard procedure… I know.” Percival sighs. He already spent three hours with the healers, sick and miserable. It is going to be at least another few before his duties are done.

“Then you’re going home. For the week, like the healers said. I needed you well enough for the report, but then you’re back on a normal schedule of potions, just as prescribed.” Seraphina’s tone is firm; Percival still isn’t eager to argue.

“Agreed?”

Her hands slide down to rest on both his shoulders. Grounding him and supporting him.

“Agreed, Sera.” Percival echoes, more than willing to sleep for a few days after this fiasco.)

How fucking wrong was he.

  
  
  


What does Grindelwald do when he isn't here? Surely he isn't waiting for Percival to crack.

Most likely, the bastard is snooping through Percival’s things. Trying to piece together Percival’s life from his penthouse. Between the rather absurd amount of books and the lack of personal items, his search could not possibly be fruitful.

Unless—

He somehow gained access to Percival’s house upstate. Fucking shit!

There is no reason why Grindelwald couldn't get into the house if he got into the penthouse. Percival cannot wrap his head around how anyone can get past his wards without his knowledge. It's baffling. If someone casts a diagnostic spell, Percival is notified. Percival has them all set on hair-thin triggers; if someone with any sort of magic so much as _breathes_ on his wards, alarms go off.

The same goes for any no-maj and nonliving entity. No charmed golems, animated figures, nothing. Not even owls nor pigeons are allowed in before he invites them. He is no slouch with security related spells or wards- he’s the director of _magical security_ , for fuck’s sake.

He missed something Grindelwald capitalized on. It is the only explanation.

The dark wizard saw something lacking in Percival’s wards and took advantage… but how could he know what Percival’s wards didn’t cover? Anyone would have to case Percival’s penthouse- and what would you know, he has wards against long or repeated solicitations. There is more than one way to catch a criminal- and an immeasurable number of ways to ward an apartment. Even Percival’s house upstate isn’t warded in the same manner. Half of the reason is the house has passed down through the Graves family line, gathering wards like most dwellings gather ghosts.

(Seraphina found out, to her frustration, the Graves houses are reluctant to allow in visitors not married into the family. It took just shy of a half hour to persuade the house to let her cross the threshold. Even Percival was annoyed with the lack of protocol to convince a _house_ to let his friend in without inflicting serious harm.

The awkwardness of realizing he never invited anyone over until his sixth year of Ilvermorny added to the bizarreness of it all).

Seraphina, Lotty, and Victoria are the few people Percival personally has allowed his wards to recognize.

Of the three, Lotty has indiscriminate ability to apparate back and forth at her whim. But she's a house elf, with her magic built into the bones of the Graves household. She is old and sweet natured- Percival swallows hard to fight his grief.

Grindelwald is going to kill her if he hasn't already.

Lotty will get in his way, threatening Grindelwald’s privacy and disguise. She'll learn too late Percival was replaced, if she ever does. House elf magic is an ancient kind of power, but Grindelwald could incapacitate her with ease if he startles her.

She couldn't be the source of this massive security breach. It goes against her very nature to bring harm to any Graves through action or negligence.

(Percival isn't the best master to a house elf— he's hardly home, to start with. And he doesn't require much from Lotty outside of the general upkeep of the Graves mansion he inherited. But surely she thinks of him as fair. First, she was a friend to him when he was young. And as he got older, Lotty took it upon herself to ensure Percival wasn’t overworking himself as a young Auror. She mother hens him outside of her housekeeping duties.

Since he was promoted to director, she is less influential in keeping his schedule reasonable. Lotty leaves meals for him, but with his irregular hours, Percival didn’t feel right requiring her to stay just to see him. Lotty has family at the Graves mansion proper where his father lives.

He is grateful for her friendship and work she does for him. Merlin knows he has no time to himself, much less time to keep his properties in good condition.

Her name is one on the long list of those Percival has put into jeopardy.).

Seraphina is the singular semi-frequent visitor to the penthouse. She's about half as paranoid as Percival is— which still makes her warier than most Aurors. Her discretion and trust are not questionable. Sera wouldn't be careless enough to let anyone past Percival’s wards. As for loyalty… if twenty-five years of friendship mean nothing to her, Percival is more fucked than he thought.

Even though the chance of someone conspiring against him is slim, Percival has nothing else to think about.

 

… Victoria.

 

It isn't in her character. She may have hated him for a decade, but she never wished him ill.

Of the three, it is the least stretch to think Victoria would be the one to resonate with the anti-Statute rhetoric. Percival was not supportive, was silent as their father verbally attacked her for marrying a half-blood.

She was young— hell, he was young, too. But not young enough to excuse his behavior. He let himself be blinded by his career, by his father’s hatred instead of recognizing Victoria’s early marriage didn’t mean she turned her back on the family or her own talents.

 

No, they pushed her away.

Percival had the nerve to be ashamed of her. The hypocrisy of siding with a man he hates over the sister he adores.

If this was a recent spilling of bad blood, then perhaps Percival could see Grindelwald’s convoluted messages influencing her. The tempting promise of equality between no-majes and wizard would have been a balm against the scorn directed towards her. (False, of course. Grindelwald seeks authority, not freedom). But Victoria has a good head on her shoulders, at least as intelligent and talented as Percival himself.

She appears to have forgiven him, time mellowing her hurt. While Percival struggled with, then accepted the dichotomy of life and law. She and William allow him to integrate into their family (as much as he can with the hours he works, despite the guilt urging him to stay away).

 

He shouldn't ruminate over it.

The most logical answer is someone in MACUSA is to blame— not the people closest to him. It isn’t fair for Percival to turn on those he trusts because he’s stressed and has too much time. Percival cannot allow himself to be at his worst, let Grindelwald twist him into something he isn’t.

 

Percival exhales in a huff. Who knew torture would be so boring? It is another vice of his: the inability to sit still and relax. It got him into trouble as an Auror until he learned how to help other departments during his downtime. Records, Permits, Storage… anyone who got him the clearance had him for a few hours each week.

His accidental networking with all of MACUSA helped him become Director, no question. And now he has the authority to work as long as he wants. To be without anything to occupy his time is frustrating. Nothing but worthless anger and pain to keep him busy.

Grindelwald has given him nothing to work with to plan his escape. The void where Percival’s magic use to be is within reach, terrifyingly empty. Like sticking his fingers into a lake to feel water but there is frozen nothingness instead. (Percival’s investigative side is intrigued, curious as to what sort of magic might have such an effect. The precision of the spell is impressive, honestly. The edges are so clean he could miss them).

Grindelwald has forced Percival to be unorthodox, that’s all.

Percival needs to be given the time and latitude to come up with something that will catch the dark wizard on his heels. The window of opportunity might not ever appear— meaning Percival has to be poised to strike.

It needs to be soon, before he is too weak to do anything but lie on the floor. Hunger eats at him, a dizzying ebbing of strength and fortitude. Percival doubts Grindelwald will be as lenient with food as he has been with water.

Speaking of which, Percival hasn’t needed to cough as much as he used to. He isn’t _healthy,_ but he’s not gasping for breath from a losing battle with pneumonia. Grindelwald must not be keen to play nurse while he is busy doing whatever the hell he’s trying to do with Percival’s life.

Percival retreats to a corner— the corner he has designated as _his_. The one opposite to the glass he threw.

He used the blood stains on the stone as a point of reference, but Grindelwald cleaned them. It is nausea-inducing to be faced with the same, identical four walls every time he opens his eyes. Maybe Grindelwald would have better luck leaving Percival to rot into insanity.

It is another layer of cruelty Percival is thoroughly pissed off about.

If Grindelwald monitored him for any length of time, it wouldn’t be hard to piece together all of Percival’s fears— or rather, what his Aurors think he hates. Boredom and helplessness are the biggest threats to Percival’ composure. Being responsible for a large portion of MACUSA enables him to stay in control, resulting in a habit of being the authority figure in any situation. He needs to lead because it is his duty, but it is also ingrained into his personality. Percival won’t tolerate messiness, uncleanliness, or disheveled appearances. Thus, his current state of dress— rather, undress— grates at his nerves. Where did his shirt go?

Percival blinks. He forgot about it after he tore it into shreds to clean clotted blood off his skin. He never noticed Grindelwald getting rid of it. Mentally, he scolds himself. These kinds of mistakes will be detrimental to his chance at escape.

(Or he could settle for a good fight.

At this point, Percival is ready to fucking punch Grindelwald in his thrice-damned face. Magic isn’t necessary for a good old-fashioned brawl).

His slacks are stiff with dried blood. Especially around the waistband, where they are dyed a rich red-black instead of navy. Percival doesn't want to know how much sweat and blood they have soaked up.

Carefully, Percival leans against the stone wall, wedging himself into the corner so Grindelwald can't sneak up on him. He brushes his hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand, not keen to use his still aching left wrist or broken fingers. There is no pomade left to keep his hair neat. Some of it is held in place from coagulated blood at the back of his head.

Pulling his knees to his chest, Percival hides his face from the light to sleep. His left knee twinges, the healed tendon pulled into full extension. It is easy to ignore after pain much worse than this.

 

 

Exhausted as he is, Percival cannot sleep when his nerves are wound tight. The best he manages is a light doze, lifting his head to check the cell every so often. A good proportion of his unease stems from the distinct break Grindelwald grants him from torture. The dark wizard must be trying to lull him into a sense of calm, which increases Percival’s stress.

(Or Grindelwald lets Percival work himself up about the lack of pain, knowing Percival will analyze everything he does— and doesn’t do).

 

 

 

 

He doesn’t startle when Grindelwald apparates into the cell with an echoing crack. Percival lifts his head and levels an unimpressed glare at him. Grindelwald tilts his head and smiles in response. Grindelwald’s hands are in the pocket of his slacks as he rocks forward onto his toes before settling his weight into a relaxed stance. Feet shoulder width apart, with a slight slouch to his spine.

The bastard is fucking eager for _something._

Percival scans Grindelwald, noting the lack of vest, suit jacket, and tie. It might be evening since the dark wizard doesn’t look dressed to go out. (Merlin’s beard, Grindelwald shouldn’t wear a plain white dress shirt. It washes him out, makes him appear unnatural with his blond hair and two-colored eyes, even with the grounding black slacks). Percival hazards a guess it is Monday evening. If Grindelwald isn’t feeding him misinformation about trying to attend work that morning.

When Grindelwald studies him in return, Percival regrets the position he’s put himself in. He looks defensive backed into a corner. Hell, maybe he is.

Magic yanks Percival forward towards Grindelwald. Percival growls, an automatic reaction to being manhandled. But the stone was smooth enough not to tear up his feet.

“Tired, Percival?” Grindelwald’s smugness is despicable, hidden under false concern. The dark wizard clearly goads Percival and appears disappointed with Percival’s lack of interest.

“Why, are you bored?” Percival bares his teeth in anything but a grin, mimicking Grindelwald’s inflection and tone.

He is aware his temper gathers animal-like fury behind it, dragged out into the open the longer he’s in pain, the longer he suffers. A dangerousness Grindelwald exposes as he chips away Percival’s smooth exterior he wears so well. The surface of his personality polished to hide the anger he never allows himself to feel.

(There is a certain level of ruthlessness needed to survive as an Auror for so long. To face criminals and match their ferocity with his own. The difference is Percival walks on the side of the law. He buries the viciousness so deep, no one can see it lurking in him).

Percival tries to hold onto his sanity, but his civility is gone. He doesn’t need it in a place like this—

Recoils because Grindelwald conjures a line of fire across Percival’s face. Blood wells up, red on the right side of his nose and cheek. Deep pain as if Grindelwald stuck a cauterized knife just below Percival’s eye and _ripped._

Percival snarls, loud and sharp, and presses his hand to the wound. It was a clear message: stop back talking. Grindelwald is tiring of Percival’s spiteful attitude. Not that Percival blames him. He can be one stubborn bastard.

It is deep. Facial wounds bleed everywhere and this one is no exception. Warm blood spills down his jaw and neck, trailing crimson across his bare chest. More runs over his fingers and along his arm. Percival feels the edges of the gash stretching from the bridge of his nose to the bottom of his right ear. Any further up and Grindelwald would have ruptured Percival’s eye. He tries not to appear shaken.

Ignoring the dark wizard, Percival doubles over to hide his wince. His eye will be swollen shut within the hour, irritated by the proximity of the slashing curse. Damn, it _hurts._ Any movement of his jaw or cheek pulls the edges apart, sending blood flowing hot and heavy down his face.

The intensity of the pain could mean Grindelwald severed muscles. A terribly painful punishment. Percival will live— but talking may be an issue.

A silent spell forces Percival to look up into his torturer’s eyes. Grindelwald smiles. The corners of his eyes crinkle in a parody of humor. Percival keeps his mouth closed, settling for a glare as the dark wizard kneels and places a hand on Percival’s shoulder. Grindelwald’s other hand rests on top Percival’s other collarbone. The dark wizard's thumb digs into the hollow of Percival’s throat.

Percival's stolen wand presses into his neck under the corner of his jaw. The steel handle is cold on his shoulder. He didn’t see Grindelwald draw it.

“Aren't you tired of this?” Grindelwald’s comforting tone is lost through the sickening wave of pain and anger rising in Percival’s chest. The bastard is touching him.

Percival isn't a tactile person— no one touches him. No one tries to shake hands with him unless he offers first. And he is the one to acknowledge others, letting them know he is aware of their presence. No one _dares_.

He's the Director of Magical Security and a dangerous Auror. People always yield a respectable amount of distance around him. Everyone moves out of the way when they see him approaching. No one in the office has the nerve to offer a friendly clap to his shoulder or back. It is curious to note people will pick up on his silent cues, deferring to his authority about the unacceptability of physical contact. Percival never has to say a word.

Nobody but Theseus and Sera are allowed to offer a rare friendly touch. But this fucking psychopathic murderer waltzes past Percival’s privacy—

Percival bites down a cry of pain, the slow drag of a blade cutting his back. Grindelwald’s gaze jumps over Percival’s face, watching Percival's eyes widen and then narrow. The way he swallows hard and grits his teeth— then stiffens because his cheek protests.

“You're exhausted, Percival. I know you are,” the dark wizard says. Percival is distracted as Grindelwald’s thumb slides over the side of Percival’s throat, sweeps back to dig into the sensitive area above his sternum. Hard enough to put threatening pressure on his trachea.

A low, furious growl is Percival’s response when the dark wizard does it again— Grindelwald catches on to Percival’s uncomfortable twitch. What the fuck is he playing at?

The slow-growing pain worsens as another line starts next to the first. Grindelwald watches as Percival remains as still as possible, breathing in short gasps as the sluggish path carving into his back lengthens.

 _“Ah—”_ Percival cuts himself off as agony races bright and reckless up his spine. He muffles the outburst into a groan trapped behind gritted teeth. Shudders when Grindelwald’s spell starts another incision. How can it wear him out faster than an Unforgivable?

“No one will blame you for yielding, Percival. Not after all I've done to you.” The dark wizard's ability to pitch his voice to be low and soothing is uncanny. While he's cursing Percival’s back to shreds in the meantime.

“I'll decline, thank you.” Percival can't bluff a cocky grin, not even a smirk. He can barely open his mouth to talk. Not when he fights the desire to scream for mercy. Blood soaks into his slacks and underwear. His back is wet with the amount of blood running down it.

He should have kept his fucking mouth shut because Grindelwald tightens his hand on Percival’s shoulder. Percival lurches forward with a ragged gasp, choking on disbelief as the mind-shattering curse slices deep through muscle.

The only reason why Percival doesn't scream is because he doesn't have the air in his lungs to do it.

Grindelwald’s jab at Percival’s occlumency is unproductive. But he must feel Percival's focus waver in shock. The same time the dark wizard slides a hand up the back of Percival’s neck.

Percival snaps his head forward. Breaks Grindelwald's nose—

Agony like a landmine goes off in Percival’s right thigh.

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

Percival labors through constant pain, trying to find it in him to wake up. But he's in so much pain… it's debilitating. He can't move. He is face down on the stone.

The kind of agony that shuts down the desire to do anything but try to stop the anguish. The stone floor is blissfully cold— he's running a fever. Probably sick, if what coats his throat and mouth isn't blood.

He can't move.

Percival braces a shaking hand on the floor— groans through the new wave of glass shredding his head and back and leg. He can't move. He coughs, clearing liquid from his mouth and lungs. Lies back down on the stone, the cold air seeping into his lacerated back.

He has to breathe but it hurts— he's so tired of being in pain. And— and his leg. He can't move his right leg at all without his body screaming at him to stop. What did Grindelwald do?

It is bad.

Percival can't find the strength in him to check. But it must be broken or shattered. He does not know what he can do but lie on the floor, shivering.

Trembling from pain and cold and hunger. From the low-burning fire in his head. Mercy Lewis, he's getting sick. Sick from blood loss and the constant, never-ending injuries and wounds wearing him down. Or it's the Cruciatus Curse?

It takes a few minutes for him to realize his vocal cords are making an awful rasping sound. A constant, non-verbal plead for the pain to stop.

Percival won't waste the effort to force himself to fall silent. Especially not—

 _“Shit!”_ His voice fails him, sharpens into a whine when he tries to look back at the damage. Nauseous, Percival presses his forehead to the cold stone to try and bear the radiating agony. His chest heaves with ragged, half-formed cries he won't let out. Air hisses between clenched teeth.

Fine.

He won't move.

With his back shredded and thigh shattered, Percival recognizes his own vulnerability. Grindelwald could exploit so many injuries to wear him down. He needs to prepare for that eventuality— or if the dark wizard reverts back to the Cruciatus Curse.

Percival cannot fix any of it.

Accepting helplessness burns acidic in his throat but he has no choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! This will be my last chapter (probably) for a few weeks until I finish my finals. I set the estimated chapter number at ten, but I might break some of these chapters down into smaller pieces to better signal a passage of time and/or important events. (I have a rough outline of what I want to happen, with some scene fully written in advance).
> 
> But we're hitting a home stretch of Percival's capacity to resist.
> 
> As always, your thoughts are much appreciated! Is the story developing in a way you like? Is the suspense good enough? Is my characterization of Percival believable?


	8. Shattered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He tried, he really did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Graphic description of violence/injury. Seriously.

Grindelwald overestimates Percival’s injuries. He assumed a broken leg on top of the other damage would render Percival useless. (It should, but Percival cannot afford to wait). He's weak as hell and cannot stop trembling, but there is enough fire in his muscles to fight back. 

Enough anger and desperation to carry him through the pain.

(It should be impossible. With the blood loss and starvation, Percival should be dying. The dark wizard must be keeping him well enough to stay conscious. Merlin knows there is enough magic in this place to make his skin tingle when he leans against a wall for too long.

If only Percival knew what spells soak this place in magic, what spells keep his heart beating to pump his blood onto the stone. He should be able to fight, to shred the magic so he chokes to death on blood and dies to spite the bastard). 

Grindelwald steps close to him, overbearing and no doubt saying something mocking or insulting. That sly, smug grin of a man enjoying the misery he created. Well dressed, well-fed, and not with an ounce of pain undercutting his focus like Percival.

It is more than enough to hate.

Grindelwald gets in reach.

Arrogant son-of-a-bitch.

Percival lashes out with his good leg. Kicks the side of the dark wizard’s knee. Percival surges up, broken fingers grabbing Grindelwald’s tie. Yanks it free of the waistcoat until it tightens around Grindelwald’s neck to pull him off balance. 

Snarling, Percival twists, using his weight as leverage. It is messy with a broken leg fucking up his ability to move as he wants. No matter. He turns his clumsy stagger into a push. Ignores the hot flare of pain across his back in favor of harming Grindelwald.

Shoves Grindelwald into the wall of the cell. The dark wizard’s head hits stone despite Grindelwald’s attempt to brace his fall. Percival’s wand clatters to the floor. He snatches it up, flipping his wand half a turn to point at Grindelwald.

Staggers back a step to grant himself space and time.

The dark wizard raises a hand to his bleeding forehead. Eyes flash with shock and anger. Percival hoped he could have knocked Grindelwald out. Given himself time to think while a million thoughts race through his panic, garbled and disjointed. Useless.

Percival is the one standing, armed. It is his chance. All his hatred and pain rises from his chest to his throat. His shoulder protests the sharp lighting pattern he carves into the air between them.

 

 

**_“Avada Kedavra!”_ **

  
  


 

The Unforgivable leaves Percival’s mouth harmless, though he speaks with lethal revenge. No corrosive magic stings the air. No flash of blinding green light burns like ozone, cuts across the distance to strike Grindelwald dead.

Nothing.

 

 

His wand is silent as if dead.

No burst of magic— not even a spark of intent could get through.

 

 

_ No no no no no— _

 

All the air rushes from Percival’s lungs when Grindelwald recovers and laughs.

“A valiant effort, director.” The dark wizard praises, mirth in his gaze as he stands up with a grimace. Grindelwald’s hand drops from the wound. There is blood on his palm, but it isn't a serious injury. A trickle of red runs down his temple but disappears as it is healed.

Healed with magic as easily as Grindelwald breathes, but Percival is left defenseless. He cannot access one spark of his powerful magic. 

Confusion and fear choke Percival.

He rocks back on his left leg— his right won’t support his weight. Looks at his wand, his traitorous wand. His magic—

Percival has killed with the Curse before. Never has he wanted anyone to drop dead more than Grindelwald before him. What happened to his magic? It isn’t right— 

Percival is useless without it. He’s trapped— 

Grindelwald watches the emotions play across Percival’s face, smiling in a terrifying, patronizing way. The dark wizard is confident, unconcerned with Percival’s attempt at murdering him. Terror sinks into Percival’s heart, polluting his chest and limbs. He trembles.

His wand slips from his grasp to lie abandoned on the floor.

Grindelwald calls the wand to him before tucking it into his waistcoat. He smirks as Percival stares at him.

“You must not be in your right mind, Percival. Did you really think you could escape with such pathetic effort?” The dark wizard ignores him in favor of cleaning the smear of blood on the wall and floor with a languid gesture. His back is to Percival; the clearest dismissal Percival has ever received.

He could read an essay’s worth of horrifying realizations in Grindelwald’s behavior.

Percival realizes he is gasping for air as if he ran for his life. His body wants to collapse— anything other than trying to keep weight off his bad leg. 

“I said I wouldn't underestimate you, but it seems you've done it to me. You're weaker than you think, otherwise, you might have had something to show for this attempt…”

Grindelwald glances over his shoulder at Percival, triumphant— Percival loses his temper.

He closes the distance before Grindelwald can react. Grindelwald must be dazed despite appearances. It's the only reason Percival gets away with rushing him— unless the dark wizard thought Percival was above a physical fight. 

He ignores the agony lancing up his thigh into his hip. Percival pins the fucking bastard to the floor with a hand on his shoulder and punches Grindelwald in the nose— 

The cheek— 

The jaw—

He doesn’t care his bones are broken. Unparalleled malice dulls his senses, takes the place of fear and turns it into the energy he needs to beat Grindelwald to a pulp. If magic can’t do it, Percival has pure fury fortifying his strength. Filling him with a dizzying rush.

How many times does Percival land hits in quick succession?

Not enough— never enough, he’s doomed— 

 

 

Indescribable torture pierces his abdomen.

 

Percival crumples, a keen tearing his throat. Clutches his midsection. He is on top of Grindelwald—  the dark wizard swears and coughs through a broken nose. Mutters a healing spell to erase the damage done. 

Debilitated by agony, Percival can only choke on ragged cries of pain as Grindelwald reverses everything Percival did to him. He knows better than to scream. Screaming would turn the spike of agony into something unbearable. It might be enough to make him give in, to make him beg for mercy.

A hand on the back of Percival’s neck keeps his forehead pressed to Grindelwald’s shoulder. He can’t move—  Grindelwald punctured his intestines.

Hot liquid pools in Percival’s hands. It is not all blood, but from whatever was damaged. 

_ It burns! _

He shudders. 

It’s the war again. One minute he’s running and the next he tumbles to the ground, screaming from a pain worse than life should allow— a blur of mud and blood and agony of his organs spilling on the earth, into his abdominal cavity— make it stop, oh god!

Theseus is in a panic but Percival can’t hear anything over his own screaming— we’re getting a healer, don’t move, Percy. You’ll live— Someone pinning him down, keeping him from tearing himself apart any further while locked in agony and mad with pain.

Percival has enough sense to bring himself into the present, shaking. Gasping, breathless as he tries not to move and make it worse. Grindelwald’s hand is now in Percival’s hair now, brushing it back with a sickening mockery of concern. Percival’s wand digs into his stomach, opposite to the agony like an ember burning through him.

Grindelwald ignores the blood and everything else soiling the dark wizard’s clothes from the small puncture wound dripping over Percival’s hands. 

“Percy, why can't you be reasonable?” Grindelwald sighs. 

Percival fucking hates him. He hates being this close to Grindelwald, feeling the frustrated exhale brush his hair because Percival is too injured to move.

Despises the dark wizard’s perversion of his nickname. Percival finds it in him to compose himself, to snarl and breathe deep enough to talk past his screaming nerves. He is tired and exhausted. Of the pain and the Unforgivables and the circular conversations they keep having when Percival has made his stance clear.

If Grindelwald would just kill him...

“You bring out the worst in me, motherfucker,” Percival spits.

Instantaneous regret— 

Convulses, howls, and screams. Pushes against Grindelwald keeping him close— anything to make it stop. Agony transverses his abdomen— molten metal rending a deep line to burst with blood and vital tissues— 

Screams until he can’t breathe—

Percival trails off into shattered cries and moans, tears soaking the fabric under his cheek. His heartbeat thunders in his head, tripping over itself as his lungs spasm, trying to replace the oxygen he loses.

Grindelwald waits until Percival’s body shakes with constant tremors.

Coaxes Percival to sit up— it feels like hours later. Percival gasps and whines. He lies Percival on his back—  all the blood spilling out of him. The stench of ruptured intestines— Grindelwald is not bothered by it.

Percival curls in on the injury— arms wrapped around himself in a wasted attempt to keep everything from bleeding, dripping. Hot on his skin, slippery with blood and visceral fluids that shouldn't be exposed to the air— he would throw up if he could, petrified by the agony of intestines slipping out of place. 

Tries not to breathe or move but he cannot stop the cries of agony— 

Grindelwald ripped him apart, lets him rot.

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

“Percival, Percival.”

No, he's not ready.

Percival moans, weak. His breath comes in quick and ragged gasps, matching his thready pulse. He cannot open his eyes— 

Death courts him as pain eats him alive.

Fever burns his head and hands. Shaking, stained crimson hands trying to stop the slow bleed and sepsis. Rotting, contaminating his blood and mind. He can't feel his legs— his spine and muscles locked in futile attempts to stop the agony.

“Percival,” Grindelwald’s voice is gentle but his touch isn't.

Percival remains stiff, shivering. A warm hand on his shoulder— he's so cold, it's miserable— 

Pressure in his head— 

It's not occlumency in its proper form, but Percival is so occupied by the agony of his injuries he keeps Grindelwald out. He is on the razor’s edge of losing control— 

A rib splinters.

Percival gasps. Trembles, disoriented by another wave of pain. The dark wizard pushes again.

When Percival doesn't yield his memories, another rib breaks.

He starts to cough— manages a scream when it pulls his ruptured abdominal wall. Falls silent, breathing pattern stumbling to a halt. Grindelwald won't give him a reprieve. Percival chokes, pink foam filling his nose and mouth, mixing with bile and whatever is left in his stomach. It pools under his cheek, where he lies on stone.

Spreading into the puddle of blood and visceral fluid soaking into his slacks and coating his skin.

“Percival, enough of this.”

Another attempt— this time Percival’s already broken femur breaks again. The agony is lightning, electricity conducting through him and searing his chest and head. He jerks, but what can he do? Only express his pain and suffer regardless. The promise of unconsciousness lingers in the air— Percival tries to sink into it, desperate to avoid Grindelwald’s assault.

He can't— 

Why would Grindelwald allow him to escape?

Darkness seeps into his chest and mind. A resignation he’s tried to avoid so far— so far with little success but he used his grace period. Grindelwald was only waiting to test him. He could have done this from the beginning and Percival still wouldn’t have been able to outlast him.

The shocking pain of the Cruciatus curse clears his mind— almost a welcoming distraction from his leg and abdomen. The pure, all-encompassing fire is grounding. Stalls his mind and lungs and heart from working— 

The aftermath is what ruins him. Pain collapses inward. 

Muscles drawn onto shards of bone. The searing torture of the wound that eviscerated him—  it nearly has. He suffers enough for it to be plausible. 

Percival moans— a horrible guttural sound trails off, long and drawn out. Deep from his chest but twisted, marred by the agony destroying him. Percival is too exhausted, too disoriented and weak to do anything as Grindelwald systematically breaks down his mental shields.

Gathers enough sense to try to pull back to salvage some mental distance— 

_ “Aaahh—!” _

Percival's cry masks Grindelwald’s snarl of irritation. While it must be dizzying to have the stability of a mind try to change on oneself, attempting to resist is pain he can't describe— 

Percival is trapped but panicked enough to fight back even though the dark wizard's hold is unforgiving. 

Like a deer he once spotted dangling from an iron wrought fence. It misjudged the jump and impaled itself on the spikes. Ripped open its soft underbelly stained muddy red with blood and ruptured intestines. Squealing and struggling even though it's dying.

Fighting is an awful instinct, a terrible desperate need of self-destruction.

Grindelwald’s legilimency is brutal, like claws and knives and crushing force surrounding him, constricting the life from him. Creating purchase as the last of Percival’s shields crumple— 

Percival is the deer stuck on the fence, crying and spilling blood. The dark wizard pins Percival with one hand as he finds the wound. Fingers slip past the ruined abdominal wall— past Percival's defenses— 

He convulses. Distant, the shock jolts Percival’s spine and the scream sticks in his throat— caught now his shields have faltered now he’s failed. Grindelwald holds him carefully, in a mockery of an embrace. One arm supports his head, grip painful on the back of Percival's neck. Otherwise, Percival would crack his skull open on the stone.

“Relax, Percival. I won't hurt you if you let me in.”

But he can't, it is antithetical to everything he stands for— Grindelwald grabs at a memory, yanking it from Percival so he screams. The equivalence of pulling the organs from the deer, ignoring the agony he causes and the damage and panic— 

Percival thrashes in helplessness, trying to take his memory back but all he's doing is creating a bigger mess of gore— it doesn’t matter what Grindelwald takes. The dark wizard doesn’t give a damn. It’s about making a point, showing Percival what real suffering is— 

The claws stretch— 

Percival gasps, shuddering. Grindelwald takes advantage of Percival's crippling agony. Forces Percival’s mind open with no regard for boundaries… twists and shreds.

Percival collapses.

The iron mutilates his mind but he's alive, he's breathing and it won't stop, it won't stop—  _ it hurts—  _

Shakes and trembles. Sounds catch in his throat. His mind is spread across the fence, at the merciless whim of Grindelwald’s malicious interest.

Percival is a deer staring down at his organs on the grass. Watching the ruined tissues bleed as wolves eat him alive. Teeth and muzzles brush the insides of his ribs, ripping into his liver and lungs. There is no regard for his still beating heart.

Grindelwald reaches inside his mind and begins to hollow him out— 

Short, weak cries. Breathless.

Grindelwald’s calming spell weighs on him like poisonous lead. Permeates the air charged with anger and pain.

“Percy, relax for me. It'll hurt less.”

Percival snarls, frozen and limp. Unavoidable agony urges for complacency. But he doesn't know what the dark wizard wants him to do. Anything to make the pain stop— there is a compulsion to do what Grindelwald asks. Percival wants to refuse— 

“Stop fighting and the pain will go away.”

Each memory review is fire in Percival’s brain, each touch like blades. He flinches and squirms— then screams himself hoarse from the wound ripping his midsection apart.

How can he explain the wrongness of—  the terrifying sensation of someone else in his head, digging through personal memories and thoughts and starting to separate everything. Straining the organization of memories with disregard as Percival tries to keep up— 

Howls when Grindelwald rips. He must have found something interesting— Percival would try to figure out what the dark wizard wants but all he gets is flashes across his senses to break up the constant agony.

This is how he loses his sanity— pain cauterizing his ability to think, tastes and sounds and smells floating over the sensation of pain,  and the particular taste of blood and dark magic strangling him. Ragged pieces of memories race by blurred faces—, laughter, cries of pain and spells cracking past, volatile and too close for comfort—  senators crowding him, their faces melting into Grindelwald’s, a sadistic smile and deadly gaze trapping him— 

“Stop that.”

Twists and contorts Percival’s mind around him— he screams and screams— digs deep, desperate for something to slow Grindelwald’s rampage— 

“Ah—” chokes on blood and bile and the crisp taste of champagne for—  _ what is it?  _ Sera’s elusive smile warping into the bared teeth of a predator, eyes cold and dead like the no-maj on the street with a hole through his chest—  no, there’s the trenches and the bone-rattling explosions of artillery and the whiz of bullets tearing past him— 

Percival is no longer trapped— Grindelwald takes him and shoves him onto more spikes. To rip the deer away and see more of its intestines. Ignores the struggling, the screams— drags Percival away, trailing crimson. Before doing it again and again— 

Until he is left only as an empty hide on the fencing, exsanguinated and disemboweled. No air to make a sound but heart still active— he can’t keep up, Grindelwald must be dislodging memories on a whim. Percival can’t prepare for the unpredictable and he's been fucking up this entire time— 

Grindelwald’s sudden absence is as bad. Percival can’t do anything— his head is split open and his brain is on fire and burning away into ash. If memories could, they’d be leaking from his mouth like the blood he tastes— the smell fills his nose— no, that’s not… or is it? He cannot tell if it is blood dripping from his ears and nose now or it just a memory, his jarred mind confused which is reality. If he can even feel what Grindelwald did to him— 

He shivers, audible gasps and faint cries involuntary with each ragged, choked breath. Grindelwald hand on the back of his neck radiates warmth down Percival’s spine. He doesn't care— moans in agony. His mind isn't his. It is in pieces and stretched out, unraveled like barbed wire when he tries to grasp the extent of the damage. People have died from forced legilimency, driven mad or tortured to the point where the body shuts down from dysregulation— 

“I know it hurts. It's your own fault,” Grindelwald murmurs. The sound of his voice morphs, evolves into an echo through Percival’s skull and he wants it to stop—  stop, he doesn’t know— doesn’t understand— 

Percival tries to self-salvage. Reaches out and tries to pull things together. At least closer to him so he can think. He can’t let Grindelwald look through his memories— he needs to fight back. He must, he mustn’t— he cannot— 

“Percival.”

Grindelwald’s voice darkens, grows teeth and venom with the precision it needs to shred through the madness. Percival is lost through the pain. Draws the pieces together in some semblance of normalcy— somewhere he can sort them out as soon as he can— 

“Percival, enough.”

Percival chokes— Grindelwald sinks back into his mind with disregard to the damage- forces things far enough away to snap— 

“Stop, stop,” he begs.

Grindelwald makes room where there is none. Percival sobs, chokes on a screech of pain. He's being ripped apart, destroyed. Trying to prevent Grindelwald’s progress is impossible but Percival can't let him— he can’t stop him— 

“S-stop, please! Please—  _ ahhh! _ ”

Percival shakes, delusional with agony. 

**_“Relax.”_ **

The order takes on another dimension, radiates power to urge obedience—  _ no, not the Imperius Curse! _ He can’t fight back anymore, he isn’t strong enough— 

Percival takes the little part he still has, curls up into a small ball around the rest. A target and a defiant act— hiding away what is no longer his to keep private.

Grindelwald tears him away— worthless effort.

Percival screams.

“I told you to stop resisting.” Grindelwald takes him, starts to stretch. Rips.

It is like tracking smoke through the darkness, reaching out with reckless panic only to realize he is already breathing it in— it shreds him from the inside and he cannot do anything but claw himself to pieces to get at it. Scratching through his soul to cauterize a parasite buried too deep to remove— 

No no no, please it hurts— oh god, stop! Tries to hide but the dark wizard is everywhere, taking the rest of Percival's awareness to destroy by slow agony. A predator trapping prey to tear it to pieces, still alive and panicked. 

“P-please—  _ ah, n-n-no—!” _

Grindelwald looms over him. Percival can't separate himself from what Grindelwald wants— the dark wizard wants Percival in tatters. Fear consumes. Percival screams and screams— 

Thoughts fracture— 

Percival can't save himself when he is the one ruined, separated from his mind and body— 

Fire. Fire and acid and everything awful poured into his skull to strip his personality. There isn't— his instinct is to hide away but he can't— he can't— boiling through his brain, pouring out his eyes and mouth and ears and nose, melting the thoughts into base emotions of feral terror and a desperate, pleading submission.

Percival lets Grindelwald have his way— stops fighting him and lies limp. Limp, bloody. Gives up. Gives in to the agony and pain consume him— shattered glass of memories slicing through his mind, cutting across his eyes and mouth and ears and skin with razor-sharp handshakes of wizards and witches, the usually comforting weight of his coat drowning him. His tie is a noose around his neck— 

His wand burns his hands, leaves lines across his palms— his wand digs into his temple, ripping memories from him. The breathless agony of the Cruciatus curse surfaces, clings to him like oil— Grindelwald lights the match.

Shattered bones and bruises and blood filling his lungs he’s coughing and coughing, choking on his defiance and blinded by panic— 

“I was always going to win, Percy.”

Cold stone. Cold hard stone and cursed blood thickening in his mouth and drying on skin— his bare chest, contorted with bruises and ribs broken into pieces. He’s no longer human but a body left in disaster’s wake of agony. Skull in pieces, disintegrated and exposing his weakness— he wasn’t good enough.

Burning across his abdomen— no, it's going away. A deep, awful itch but Percival cannot move. He doesn't have the capacity— 

He couldn’t— 

Grindelwald— 

_ He— _

“Sleep. You need it.”

Hands on his burning skin— more like crumbled ash and nails of pain holding him together when he wants to die, please just let him die instead of living like this one second longer—

 

Laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...
> 
> Merry Christmas! No?
> 
> I hope all of you have a wonderful holiday season. Better than Percival's, hopefully! Chapters from here on out are not going to be formatted in the same way, so don't let that confuse you! Maybe they'll be really short or long. Depending on how I want to show the passage of time.
> 
> Also, I figured out how to get a proper dash in google docs that doesn't involve copy and pasting forever, so I need to go back and edit the old chapters to have a dash instead of a hyphen.
> 
>  
> 
> I hope you survived that chapter? Are you okay? Let me know if you liked it/didn't like it so I can take advantage of criticism :) I'm cruising unbeta'd here


	9. Composure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helplessness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Description of injuries

Percival wakes throwing up.

Unsteady and so very sick.

Nothing comes up— just agony and fear and horror. It wouldn’t be shocking if his skull split open again. It should, after what happened—

His memories are wrapped in a haze of confusion, terror, and pain. Disorganized— messy from the bastard digging through them. Percival cannot tell what Grindelwald was looking for, it’s too much.

He _hurts._

Chokes and gasps. Broken ribs are tight bands around his chest, crushing him. He can't breathe—

He can't breathe—   _it hurts!_

His lungs won't listen; they're stuck, too. Percival tries to take a breath. Shudders in pain and stops. Cold bites into his skin, sinks through the thick scar across his abdomen with an icy burn.

Unfamiliar pressure in his chest. Suffocating. More than the broken ribs—

Almost passes out when he has to cough but then there is blood in his mouth. Ferric bubbles of thick blood. Filling his mouth and throat. Filling his lungs— he's drowning. Internal bleeding.

Grindelwald isn't here— he cannot stop the slow asphyxiation.

Percival’s composure was obliterated.

He lies on the stone, breathing shallow and fast. Short, hitching gasps of panic. Attempting to rein in his fear but there is no rational to cling to— nothing he can do to recover.

If Grindelwald learned what he needed, he can let Percival drown.

Drown in memories, drown in shards of his life— sticking in his head, crumbling and grinding into abstraction— heat, light, color and blood and the scratch of his pen on paper— the metallic smell of spilled ink, the acrid stench of dark magic— rotting limbs, men and horses screaming over the screech of bullets and artillery and cold mud seeping into his clothes and soaking his fingers and toes (overt uses of magic aren’t allowed, they can’t let the no-majes know even though the winter eats through their uniforms and it hurts to see them suffer from easily treated ailments) —

Air hisses through the wetness of his lungs, hints at a slowly-dwindling timer. The fear—

He is unraveled, exposed.

Straining for breath, trying to breathe through the emotions strangling him. Not that he needs help suffocating while he drowns in his own blood. Percival tries to calm down—

It is impossible.

Grief and terror trap him in a cycle of panic.

He failed, he failed and Grindelwald has what he wants—

God, if he could just—

Anything else than this!

 

The weakest point is him— all the good the job does for him if he can’t fucking keep someone out of his head— state secrets— hell, international intelligence that isn’t his to share.

Trust and oaths and promises and his reputation, ruined.

 

Percival tries to roll onto his side—

Gags, then sinks to the floor in defeat. Overwhelmed by the agony and the injuries— broken bones, twisted muscles and half-healed organs and a destructive headache— Mercy Lewis, the pain should kill him. _If it had only killed him._

His hand claws at his throat—

_He can’t breathe!_

Percival coughs. Clears the blood in his throat to his mouth, to his chin and the stone. A blur of crimson— his eyes won’t work, strained.

 

 

 

It is so cold.

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He is shivering, fighting for breath when Grindelwald returns. The dark wizard’s smirk is foreboding—

“D-don’t,” Percival gasps.

 

Agony through his head— like a bullet.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so this fic is wrapping up! Chapters will be short or long, depending on how the scenes go. But it's winding down.
> 
> So don't be alarmed if some of these chapters are short or are formatted weirdly. Percival *is* losing his mind, remember? Updating will be sporadic as my winter break is about to end and school is about to start up again. I have about 5k written in half-done scenes that I need to complete and polish.
> 
> We're probably looking at about 15 chapters now? Something like that :)


	10. Repetition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exponential decay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Graphic description of violence/injury. Suicidal thoughts. Body Horror. Manipulation.

  
  


Percival wakes throwing up.

Unsteady and so very sick.

 

Gasping and moaning with his head in his hands. Debilitated by the migraine of disproportion agony cleaving his skull in two. He opens his mouth and tastes blood. Licks his lips and tastes the blood dripping from his nose.

He can breathe— god, but he’s freezing.

Blood dyes his hands crimson-black. The skin underneath is a purple-grey. If there were no broken fingers preventing movement, Percival wouldn’t be able to move them anyways. He cannot feel them.

Sinking to the floor, Percival covers his head with his arm. Faces a corner to hide from the light stabbing through his eyes into his brain— 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He wakes as Grindelwald helps him lay down— Percival opens his mouth. Blood drips out. Warm, trickling down his neck to match the heat of the dark wizard’s hands on skin. 

“St-stop—” Percival tries to speak, tongue heavy. Confused, he manages a weak hold onto Grindelwald’s sleeve. Grindelwald wears Percival’s clothes again, not concerned with the blood Percival smears on the fabric.

A copy of Percival’s face shifts into a pleased smile. Grindelwald scans him, evaluating.

“There you are. I admit I was worried I pushed too hard.”

Percival realizes he is sitting on something soft— a mattress? He tries to resist Grindelwald’s pressure, but his stomach protests with a warning pang.

A cot.

“What?” Percival asks, through sickening nausea and confusion and pain making his head spin. He doesn’t want to lie down. Not when the dark wizard is looming, threatening, unstoppable— 

“Ah, you don’t remember.” Grindelwald’s tone is predatory. He leans in close. Percival tries to draw back but is limited by the breathtaking flare of pain he tries so hard to ignore. If it was an option, he would lie down and refused to respond to anything Grindelwald said or did.

Everything hurts so much.

“I’ve been going through your memories. It would be easier for the two of us if you would, please, calm down. Charming you to relax is difficult— I cannot focus if you’re fighting me, but if you’re unconscious I can’t read your mind.” Dark eyes pin him in place, distracting. Familiar magic insists Percival let Grindelwald roam through his thoughts. 

Percival, trying to resist the insistent weight of magic, falls limp with a shuddering exhale. Grindelwald guides him down, a smile forming faint creases around his eyes. The dark wizard’s expression freezes then twists into a silent snarl as Percival keeps him out.

Percival scrambled for something to protect his mind, but it must have worked well enough. It isn’t his usual shield of polished steel, but a thick mud of spite that chokes Percival as much as Grindelwald. He cannot spare a thought, cannot waver in focus if he is to keep Grindelwald out— even if it is an inevitability.

Grindelwald withdraws the calming spell and kneels at Percival's side. The dark wizard’s face melts into his own, expression hard with irritation. Offsetting eyes and lack of color impersonal, inhuman.

“You and I both know how this is going to go,” says Grindelwald, tone pitched like they are conversing over a casual lunch. Soft, perversely amenable. “You’re going to pretend you can last through whatever I choose to do to you, not understanding the ability to tolerate pain is only a burden when I continue to push—”

Agony explodes in his left foot. A million cauterized needles, searing hot, shredding skin and muscle and nerves and bone—

Percival’s voice breaks with the force of his scream. His spine arches. Anything to get away— stop! Please!

A hand closes around his neck, tight and bruising. Grindelwald keeps him pinned to the cot through the worst of his writhing. The pain ebbs just enough to let Percival breathe— the next sound he makes is a horrible, pleading whine. Hoarse and thin.

Any composure Percival salvaged disappears at the horrific agony— thought-ending, searing agony ripping through his entire leg— 

Grindelwald’s face swims, doubles as Percival continues to squirm and howl. His foot— Merlin, what did he do? Moving is worse, but there is no way to stop. Broken femur twisted on itself from muscle contractions, but his foot— Percival struggles, careful to not scrape his foot on the stone— with whatever sense is left, urging him to not reopen the gashes across his back or any other half-healed wound he’s been cursed with— 

“Percy, you're going to make it worse.” Grindelwald soothes, as his nails dig into skin. Ignoring the destruction— Percival takes another breath— this one leaves in another scream. Anything to give the pain release. It radiates up his entire leg. Wet.

 

How long does he scream for?

  
  
  


“Percival, listen to me.”

 

Shaking, Percival tries. Through the involuntary cries he cannot suppress, anger festering into fear. Grindelwald leans his weight onto his forearm, the sleeve of his suit warm with body heat. The dark wizard's arm creates a line from Percival’s chest to abdomen, grip tight on Percival’s neck, elbow digging into the sensitive, still-aching scar that split him in half—

Percival gulps in a breath, forces himself to still and not jostle his foot. He tries to look at it— Grindelwald’s fingers tighten. Too-white teeth appear as Grindelwald smiles down at him.

The eagerness of a hunter.

Percival is gutted and pinned. He cannot— He can't stop Grindelwald— 

“It's still there,” Grindelwald turns, keeping Percival in place as he studies the damage he caused with a fascinated curiosity. It is sickening.

He’s  _ enjoying _ this, the fucking sadist— 

Percival knows he shouldn't move with the blistering agony creeping up his leg. His foot exists only as a formless bonfire of anguish. Staring at the ceiling, Percival breathes and blinks tears from his eyes. The hand on his neck is controlling, intimate. He hates it, but cannot fight back.

(He has been fighting the entire time. Nothing but failure and severe injuries to show for his defiance— Grindelwald is unconcerned with causing lasting damage. Percival can only expect himself to tolerate so much. And the injuries— Mercy Lewis, these injuries— the kind that cripples without medical treatment.

The bastard knows what he’s doing. Ruining Percival’s hands, his feet. Until Percival won’t be able to move or fight or cause trouble. His femur is already at the threshold of needing professional spells. And now, whatever Grindelwald just did to him—)

Grindelwald’s features smear in the air as the dark wizard looks back at Percival. His head hurts— the injury is serious enough to scramble his thoughts, reduces him to shock and pain and fear. Percival cannot track movement well when he is this dizzy. 

“Percival,” says Grindelwald.

Percival drags his gaze to meet the amusement in heterochromatic eyes— he blinks and loses too much time. Each second is an eternity of pain, but his mind cannot keep up. Time warps at irregular speeds, worsened by every curse, every spark of pain...

Grindelwald’s mouth tightens in anger. Percival jerks, gasping out a plea as the bones in his right foot grind.

“Stop, please!” He begs, clutching at Grindelwald’s wrist with weak, broken fingers. Jerks from the tightening pressure in his foot, bones threatening to crumble into dust any second— 

“Grindelwald, please!” Percival cries, twisting as the pressure increases— fractures start to form, the bones crushed with Grindelwald’s magic—

“Please! Stop,  _ stop!”  _ Percival screams, helpless.

The growing pain halts.

He slumps to the cot in relief, breath catching in his throat in a choked whimper he doesn’t try to hide. 

“Percival.”

Percival uses all the energy he has to look up and meet Grindelwald’s eyes. Despite the frustrated set of his jaw, the dark wizard's eyes are alight with sadistic interest.

“Let me in, my dear. I tire of doing this every few days.” Grindelwald says, tone pleasant even though a hand presses on Percival’s right thigh— to make him cry out and try to protect the break.

He curls, helpless, under Grindelwald’s weight. His tattered shields are shredded when Grindelwald’s mind brushes his—

Percival’s spine locks at the intrusion— his thoughts are slow and far away, forced away from him as the dark wizard's devastating interest consumes him. But—

If he lets Grindelwald rummage for what he wants, his mind isn't destroyed as badly—

  
  
  
  


“Wasn’t that easier?”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Percival throws up only twice after. And stares at the evidence of a past meal before him.

One he doesn't remember eating. 

 

Percival lies back down on the cot, shivering and weak. He sighs in relief to have something soft and gentle to rest on. Stone scrapes his split skin, catches on injuries and soaks up all heat. Percival watches red ooze into the off-white material, trying to gather enough sense to evaluate his situation.

Involuntary tremors wrack his body.

Percival catches a glimpse of his foot— he clenches his jaw and avoids looking at it again. He doesn't know exactly what happened, but it's swollen and discolored and  _ crushed _ — 

He cannot feel it. It would have worried him if he didn't also see a band of magic around his shin, shimmering above his stained, dirty slacks. Grindelwald's doing.

An act of mercy?

Or necessity? 

He does not like that Grindelwald has given him things: somewhere to sleep, food, probably water, too.

It feels like a reward— something he doesn't remember earning.

Unless—

Percival hisses, low and sharp.

_ Damn it. _

He doesn't remember— and Merlin, his head  _ hurts _ when he tries— but the dark wizard must be making progress. Forcing Percival to recall memories while the pain results in missed time. A nasty combination of legilimency and torture.

Running his tongue over his teeth, Percival considers his options. The few he has left.

Complying is out of the question— it is treasonous. 

And yet—

And yet…

Without his knowledge, Percival must be letting Grindelwald in. When he is consumed by pain and cold and a soul-heavy desire for it all to stop so he can recover— muddled with spells and injury so his attempts to resist are pathetic at best.

He  _ needs _ to fight—

but it tears him apart.

 

If there was only a way to lull Grindelwald into false security, to give himself a chance to breathe and  _ think— _

Percival cannot continue to fight him. He is not strong enough to ignore the pain in this state, even if his occlumency was up to it.

Grindelwald is too observant to trick— and Percival isn't capable of destroying his own memories to self-sabotage. Even if he had a pensieve or a way to hide the scrambled memories… it would mean he would be the one killing any chance of escape.

Of returning to life outside of this damn room.

  
  


Percival thinks it over, uncertain if he would, theoretically, commit suicide… even to ruin Grindelwald’s plans. Would he die a martyr? Or as an unfortunate obstacle to Grindelwald instead of a dead end?

“Don't worry, Percival.” Grindelwald startles him, materializing out of thin air with an eerie grin.

No— was he waiting? Not again, not so soon— 

“I won't let you die, even if it is by your hand.” The dark wizard says, ignoring the cry of pain Percival makes. He tried, instinctively, to salvage the distance Grindelwald closes, but there is nowhere to go— no way to leave with injuries like his.

_ “Imperio.” _

Percival fights the Unforgivable for the time it takes Grindelwald to kneel and draw his wand. The tip of Percival’s wand glows silver. When it digs into Percival’s temple, he trembles—

_ “Breathe, _ Percy.” Grindelwald murmurs, distracted. He stares through Percival, deep in thought.

From far away, Percival feels his ribs twinge as he takes a deep breath. Obedient as a fucking dog to every one of the dark wizard's wishes.

The Imperius Curse isn't painful… it is almost pleasant in its softness. If Percival didn't have enough sense left to be aware of the indescribable fear of not being able to control his own body. The pain is dulled. Everything is far away except for the panic.

Useless, building panic expanding through his mind and body without end. As if pushing his skin thinner and thinner— where will he snap?

“It's alright, Percival.” Grindelwald soothes with insincere pity. “The Imperius Curse won't hurt you.”

Is he— Percival’s occlumency must be ruined if he cannot say for certain Grindelwald is reading his thoughts. No, no—

The sound of his rapid, shallow breathing reaches his ears, as if through water. There is the fear, muffled, causing him to shiver more— 

“It must be terrible to not be in control. A wizard in a position of power all his life like you, Percival.”

If he could only speak, spit out acidic insults and force himself to find anger instead of the terror consuming him like Fiendfyre. Percival cannot prop up a facade on emptiness.

Grindelwald moves— a blur of color and shadow Percival cannot track, not when the curse distances himself from his body. Sensation of pressure on his shoulders, then a hand presses on his neck and jaw to loosen his tense muscles. Percival is forced to stop grinding his teeth.

“It will take me some time to learn how to best control you.” Grindelwald’s breath on his ear.

“So you can think and feel but not move. I've had practice, but you're a difficult man, director. Most wizards are weak minded, making it easy to urge them to do as so ask. You, though…” Grindelwald hums, thoughtful.

“I appreciate a challenge, but when I have more time. I need to ensure you won't be missed. For that, I'll need—”

 

Percival crumples.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait! I sorta crashed over break, then school happened. But I have my schedule figured out so I should be writing regularly again! :)
> 
> Also, I removed a fic from this series because it isn't lining up with what I am developing from this fic. It still will be similar, but there was enough plot changes to mean the fic had to go. It is still in my works, just not associated with the series.
> 
> How is everyone? Good? Better than Percival, surely? Maybe like Grindelwald' level of excitement for a new chapter? *insert evil grin here*. Did you like it? Your comments are fuel tbh. And not at all related to how much Percival suffers. Of course not.


	11. Time's Passage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It's getting worse._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Body horror (seriously), graphic depictions of violence/injury, manipulation, torture, Grindelwald being the piece-of-shit sadist he is.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Time passes in irregular stretches.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It is so hard to make sense of anything— to his shredded mind, all that is important is the chilling sound of his stolen voice and the pain.

 

 _Merlin, the_ _pain._

  
  
  
  


He doesn’t know what he does to deserve the agony, but he would do anything to make it stop.

 

Skin splitting open from unspoken curses as Grindelwald searches for information— ignoring Percival’s screaming. The worsening seizures. Bruises forming from blood pooling where it shouldn’t. Nails cracked and bleeding from scratching stone in desperation, bones grinding and creaking. 

He is sure some of his teeth are fractured. From the force of his muscles locking up from too many sessions of the Cruciatus Curse— if Grindelwald stripped Percival’s nerves bare from flesh, then took a match to them, it would hurt less—

 

Percival remembers biting clean through his tongue. Because Grindelwald stopped to heal it, so he wouldn’t choke on red and lose the ability to speak.

 

A hand on his shoulder, supporting his neck and head. Sliding over the column of his throat, the edge of his jaw. Sometimes coaxing him to drink or eat.

 

Percival throws it back up within the hour more often than not.

He cannot eat when there is this much pain consuming him.

  
  
  
  


He lies discarded on the cot when Grindelwald is done with him. Left to slog through the agony of his body and head screaming for his attention. For him to fix it so he can sleep, so he can breathe and think…

 

Grindelwald never gives him enough time.

  
  


Hours?

Days?

  
  


He blinks and loses hours. Passes out from agony and wakes a few seconds later, unable to escape.

  
  


His own wand carves lines into his skin, clean and deep through tissue. To bone. Gliding through muscles and nerves.

 

Percival watches blood well up across his stomach, his arms. Wonders if his silence is worse than begging for mercy. Grindelwald’s smile is... is something akin to fondness when a rare cry of pain escapes. When it has been hours and Percival’s chest is a void of emotions and sounds. Or when a violent shiver runs up Percival’s spine.

The dark wizard likes to be close, personal.

Whispers, gentle, as Percival does not resist leaning into him. Most things don’t stick in his head, but some do.

Sickening encouragement when Percival is too exhausted to struggle, to scream obscenities. Until the only foul things falling from his mouth are acid and blood.

When he lets Grindelwald into his thoughts without a fight— after too long of trying to figure out a new way to keep Grindelwald out— focusing on other memories, forcing the dark wizard to wade through the monotony of paperwork, through the adrenalin-filled fights during the Great War. 

The soothing words, meant to humiliate when Percival’s voice gives out on him after hours of pleading, screaming for it to stop,  _ please stop—  _ he is not willing to play along, but it helps to let the pain form the sounds ripping apart his throat. 

The hissed taunts when Percival is— somehow— able to fend off the dark wizard’s legilimency for a few minutes too long. About his life, his Aurors not noticing a change— Seraphina’s touching concern about her director’s stress…

_ They must not care about you at all, Percy. To not notice you’ve been replaced? Although, I will say the job is simple with magical talent like ours. It must not matter who does the job, as long as it gets done. _

_ Did you really think you were vital to MACUSA? _

_ Even Seraphina is apathetic. You two went to school together, didn’t you? _

_ Is it her fault or yours she cannot notice you’re gone? I was given the impression you were close friends… but I must have been mistaken. Unless you’ve been leading her on all this time... _

  
  
  
  


In the silence, the darkness, hatred corrupts him. A soul-eating revulsion would have concerned him in any other situation. 

  
  


Fury flickers in his chest, sinister and festering, growing where his magic used to be. If he could only dip for magic, turn his anger into caustic energy. It crackles under his skin, coats his tongue in ozone. He tastes metal on his bared teeth.

 

“Excuse me for not taking advice from you, but I like to keep to myself. If that hasn’t been clear, you aren’t qualified for the job—” 

 

But it is hard to maintain when Grindelwald beats him senseless for defiance.

  
  
  
  


Anger coats his throat and lungs. He takes comfort in the thick darkness poisoning his head and mind with vengeance. Hatred is easy to breed in the silence of his wheezing gasps and wet coughs.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It must have been two weeks by now. Two weeks of lying on stone and bleeding from cuts and shaking with the aftershocks of the Cruciatus Curse. Of cold seeping into his broken bones and numbing his nerves and thoughts.

Percival is clumsy and lethargic as hunger wears him down. He knows enough of Grindelwald’s habits to know what the dark wizard will do to him.

Grindelwald is predictable in behavior. Except for when his composure snaps and the dark wizard lashes out. Percival hasn’t yet determined the breaking point— doesn’t know how far he can push back.

 

Waits in darkness as fear paralyzes him. 

  
  


Forced legilimency happens at least once a day. After work when Grindelwald wears his borrowed face and clothes while Percival trembles and gasps while his mind is rifled through. It doesn’t get better, but Grindelwald becomes efficient at looking for a memory in particular.

He is too terrified to fight back then, not when Grindelwald can counter with destructive agony and mental instability. (Percival cannot guarantee Grindelwald needs him sane — not when he is already fraying at the edges. When he cannot contextualize what Grindelwald knows already and what he still needs to learn. At any point, he could decide Percival is worth less to him alive than dead—). 

Percival is left to recover for a few hours before the dark wizard is back, relaxed and bored. Probably seeking entertainment after eating dinner and taking care of paperwork because he rarely asks anything meaningful of Percival in these moods.

 

Grindelwald hurts him for torture’s sake.

 

Exhausts Percival with never-ending injuries, until he is limp and endless cries of pain leave his raw throat. Rasping, weak sounds barely making it past his chapped, bleeding lips.

Broken bones. Severed and shredded muscles. Bruises from vicious kicks, organs swollen and hot under his splitting skin. Patches of skin blistering from burns.

After— 

After Percival is reduced to near-silent shaking, Grindelwald finally talks to him. Either to prompt Percival into answering his questions, or to discuss his day. The dark wizard skims over Percival’s mind when he does this. To cross-examine his behavior, the conversations he had.

To gloat.

  
  


Percival doesn't have the capacity to react. Lies tense and sick with dread.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Percival knows he did something to set Grindelwald off.

  
  
  
  


The agony— he wakes screaming, the sound more akin to a creature than anything a man should make.

His back— 

God, it's destroying him— ice and fire and acid eating through him to bone— moving isn't an option.

He isn't on the cot. He tears up his nails without noticing, trying to dig into stone for a way to bear the pain— 

 

Screams for Grindelwald. For a chance the dark wizard's temper has cooled enough to heal whatever he did—

He has no voice left. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Percival opens his eyes— freezes, breath caught in his throat. Stares at a bloody heap—

_ Oh, god— _

 

Bloody and sliced through with scars and spotted with dark burns— a large, discarded pile of—

 

skin. Neatly cut from his—

  
  
  


Percival accepts unconsciousness when his mind stumbles, blanks in horror. 

  
  
  
  
  


As punishment, Percival is forced to stay alert when Grindelwald stitches him back together. Learns the dark wizard perfected the Imperius Curse as he promised.

He cannot do anything in the echoing, isolating confines of his head. He thinks he is shivering, struggling — realizes it is his mind fabricating his body's sensations.

Except for the strangled gasps of air. 

Percival saw the— it was grey and starting to rot. The Curse keeps him from vomiting, nausea coiled tight and trapped in his throat. Grindelwald’s magic strangles him but leaves his mind untouched so he can appreciate the terror— 

A charmed needle pokes holes through tortured and dead flesh. Attaching something that has been too long separated— 

Mercy Lewis, won't this kill him?

 

Grindelwald’s silence is cold.

Dangerously quiet.

  
  
  
  
  


Percival stops trying to scream halfway through— 

  
  
  


He must be going into shock.

  
  
  
  
  
  


The Imperius Curse forces Percival to his knees. He almost passes out from the agony of putting weight on his shattered foot, his broken femur.

He sways.

Grindelwald steadies him, a hand cradling Percival’s cheek and jaw.

“I've been very clear, Percival.” The dark wizard's voice is hard as steel, devoid of all pretentious agreeableness. It is unnerving how quickly Grindelwald can switch into his natural state as a madman.

 

“If you cooperate, I won't hurt you. Do you understand?”

The control isolating him loosens. Percival nods. Once.

 

He vomits blood and bile.

 

Grindelwald doesn't flinch like Percival, only waits for him to finish. It doesn't make him feel better— what Grindelwald did—

Percival’s back burns everywhere but the dead piece stitched into him. Burns hot and angry.

The lack of sensation from the wound terrifies him.

Grindelwald vanishes the mess.

“I don't want to do this to you, Percival.”

Hysteria kicks a bark of laughter from Percival’s throat. The sound is soaked in madness, humorless and abrupt.

“Liar,” he croaks. Through acid and dark crimson and fractured teeth. He meets Grindelwald’s eyes. An act of pride he can manage in this state.

The dark wizard smiles, amused.

“Yes.”

Grindelwald takes his time studying Percival shivering in his grip. As if he catalogs a list of ways to torture Percival. The dark wizard is getting better at judging what he has to do to make Percival break.

“Then don't give me any additional reasons to destroy you, Percy, when we both know I would be happy to do it.”

Percival swallows hard, breaks eye contact.

And startles Grindelwald when he resists the legilimency with a half-assed barrier of loathing and stubbornness.

Grindelwald jumps to his feet. Draws his wand, eyes glittering.

**“Why?”** He demands, baring teeth like a monster. There is enough offended curiosity hidden under the dark wizard's anger to stay his hand.

Unwelcome fear wracks Percival’s body in waves. He ducks his head, licks his lips.

“Pride.”

Grindelwald laughs this time. It cuts Percival to bone.

“You were warned, Percy.”

Percival braces for a curse he knows he cannot endure. A ragged breath escapes. He clenched his jaw despite the pain drawing tears.

_ “Stubborn son of a bitch.” _ Grindelwald spits in German, almost affectionate in tone. Overlaying his frustration.

  
  


But what is an inconvenience to a wizard who holds all the cards?

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Percival doesn't remember what happened, except he quickly screamed for mercy. His pleads were worthless with a voice as faint as his. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“You cannot ask me to stop, then not do as I ask.”

Percival shrugs, not paying attention to the wounds he reopened. It doesn't matter. At what point did his threshold for pain adjust? He hardly notices the usual injuries Grindelwald inflicts.

“You cannot beg for mercy and then refuse me what I want.”

 

“I can.”

Part of him is horrified, recognizing the dangerous giddiness he feels. It fuels him to talk this way to Grindelwald when he knows most of the time it earns him punishment. His brain must be trying to soothe the pain any way it can.

 

Grindelwald considers him, pausing.

“I suppose you are, except I know you want the pain to stop.”

 

Agony sears another burn into his skin— Percival jerks. Screams as magic brands another mark on his arm. Near his broken wrist.

Grindelwald lets him curl in over the injury. Gasping and trembling as he tries to breathe through the increasing pain of the burns. Some of them are serious— they don’t hurt at all, black down to bone. Why is he not bothered by seeing his exposed flesh anymore?

His right hand stopped working hours ago— he cannot feel it.

  
  


Percival flinches as the poker clangs on the stone. He is certain it is from his fireplace. The fire Grindelwald conjured flickers out, letting Percival know he has at least a few minutes’ break.

 

“Percival,” Grindelwald says. And tries to touch him.

 

Percival recoils, moaning. He glances back down at his arm— tortured red and blistering from the neat, thick burns lining his skin. Eight vertical stripes. Not to count the ones he cannot see marking his back. 

“I can want you to stop… and also not want to give you anything.” Percival says between gasps, throat working to keep his cries of pain smothered. He shivers uncontrollably. Has been for days now.

 

Grindelwald hums in agreement.

“You can want many things and get none of them,” he replies.

The burn is bad, but not in the kills-his-nerves way. It will be debilitating until Grindelwald decides to heal it. Or until Percival’s worn out body tries to repair the damage with limited success.

“I’m getting something out of this.” Percival realizes he is staring at the poker and forces himself to stop. The tip of it still glows orange with heat, making the air waver around it.

(It is the only thing he can focus on when Grindelwald lowers it to meet his skin). 

That draws a chuckle from the dark wizard.

“Do tell.”

“Anything to annoy you,” Percival manages after a dry cough, forcing bile from gathering in his throat.

Grindelwald’s laughter turns incredulous. He grabs Percival by the shoulder and opposite wrist, pulling forward as Grindelwald kneels to face him.

Percival yelps— twists away from the thumb digging into a burn with no result. Grindelwald tightens his grip until Percival stills, panting.

“You grossly underestimate how much I enjoy this, my dear.” Grindelwald’s heterochromatic eyes gleam— Percival is too dizzy to focus on his face for long. 

Percival bristles as he always does when Grindelwald uses pet names. It rubs him the wrong way— harmless, but insulting.

“Even sick bastards like you aren’t immune to irritants,” Percival spits.

He cannot help the involuntary glance towards the poker. He is pushing Grindelwald’s patience— 

Grindelwald’s smirk widens into a grin. “I find your stubbornness endearing.”

The dark wizard’s other thumb strokes along Percival’s clavicle. He tenses, muscles twitching. It is easier to accept fear than fight it. Grindelwald touches him too much— absentmindedly, or to threaten an injury before he inflicts it.

“Half of the appeal of torturing someone is watching them try to fight back.” Grindelwald’s voice is low and rough enough to be considered arousal. Percival shudders— and whimpers when Grindelwald’s nail catches on a burn. 

“I make powerful men fall apart,” Grindelwald murmurs. “I do anything I want, whenever I want, to make you scream and beg me for mercy. I get to hear all the lovely sounds you make as I hurt you— feel the way you to try to squirm away from what you cannot escape.”

Percival shivers.

“What you do to be difficult is negligible, Percy. Do not pretend you are in control.”

Grindelwald leans forward and kisses him— warm and chaste.

Percival snaps his head back, a growl startled from his chest. Stares at Grindelwald with a mix of horror and disgust.

Grindelwald lets go of him, laughing.

Brushes himself off as Percival crumples without support.

 

What the hell was that?!

Grindelwald couldn’t— no, he has given no indication—

Percival buries himself in his panicked thoughts, trying to make sense of it. Of the gentleness— no matter how perverse— before he is ripped from his mind by another line of fire overloading his nerves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is bad. I'm going to hell. *shrugs*
> 
>  
> 
> Hey... word choice is important! Did I allude to something important? Did you notice?
> 
> Comments make my heart melt and make me feel warm and fuzzy. Too bad that can't transfer to Percival. I think he needs a hug and a warm blanket more than ever right now. :'c Just remember there will eventually be comfort in this series. Just not this fic in particular. 
> 
> I am curious to know if any of you have read my Captain America fic. The one I will be working on after this fic is done because it's been abandoned for too long. I guess I have a thing for angst :)


	12. Poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is unraveling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Manipulation, violence/injury, torture

  
  
  
  


 

Time is thick and heavy.

Crushing him.

  
  
  


Pain cuts through time like wire, cuts right through him to the core. Enough pain to drown him, to sweep his vision into black. Cold eats away at his bones, aches deep in his limbs.

Existing is torture.

  
  
  


He wishes every breath was his last. It rattles and catches in his chest, choked from the ribs puncturing his lungs, filling him with crimson seeping into his lungs. A slow bleed. Heartbeat weak. 

But not enough to kill him, never. Grindelwald always keeps him alive at the brink of unconsciousness.

His mind fades and wavers, but he can’t escape.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Fire in his eyes, blood between his teeth, a crimson rictus enforced only by helpless anger and bravado.

Another broken bone, a gash tearing open flesh, the Unforgivable burning his brain and scorching his nerves, contorting muscles and tearing vocal cords.

A laugh sourced from the hysteria of inescapable pain and complete character destruction. He can't— it is not a choice he can make. Only scream his anguish, through the red-tinted foam in his throat and the fear constricting his breath better than the broken ribs.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Percival Graves loses his mind and no one knows.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Percival Graves’ life was stolen.

No one cares.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

Percival is so weak and cold his mind forgets to pay attention. Pain and exhaustion make him compliant. He can’t keep up— questions, pressure in his skull. Endless agony flattens into one constant static hum of pain.

Percival wakes to Grindelwald carving lines into his skin, gasps falling from his mouth as blood wells up and drips. He watches, distant, as blades cut through his soft flesh— 

The moans and harsh cries are not him—  Percival cannot feel the vibrations in his throat and chest. Endless screaming is now silent. His ears pound with blood as his heart pushes crimson out of his veins. Silence is deafening after so many hours spent isolated from anyone. He cannot hear Grindelwald speak sometimes, unable to recognize a voice carrying through the room.

He wishes Grindelwald wouldn’t wear his face— seeing his hands doubly soaked in blood is incomprehensible. As one braces Percival and the other sinks the knife into him. Carefully. Slowly.

Strong, steady hands keep Percival’s trembling body still. His hands cloaked in his own blood, dark red and starting to clot as Percival clings to the pain. An anchor to reality, one burning line after the other. Grindelwald must mess with his head— Percival leans into the warm contact on the back of his neck, lost and desperate with all kinds of agony: cold, loneliness, hunger, thirst, the sharp pain of cuts, the pulsing and grinding of broken bones, the deep scorching heat of burns, the splitting headache worsens each time Grindelwald digs for something else— 

A soothing whisper in Percival’s ear, soft, contradicted by the dark wizard’s continued torture— a whine breaks in the back of his throat as Grindelwald holds him close and cuts open the soles of his feet. Baring bruised and shredded muscle and slivers of bone to the icy air.

The relief making him shudder when Grindelwald grants him respite, healing the mechanically-inflicted wounds with Percival’s own wand— again and

again, and again

again and again and again

_ and again—  _

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

Percival cannot bear any of it.

Ordinary injuries are easy to heal— it’s why Grindelwald spends half their time hurting Percival with his own hands. He can take it back if Percival begs him hard enough. If he wishes it so.

Or leaves Percival in agony, locked in the Cruciatus curse and choking on his own blood and screaming— always screaming with a voice that won’t make a sound. Only stopping to ask, draw out information from Percival's broken mind.

Forces Percival to drink a potion too often— every time he tries to fight it, fearing and hating the pain it causes. Burns his throat and grows agony inside him for hours of restless, aimless attempts to stop it. Mimics the Cruciatus so Grindelwald doesn’t have to be present. He only has to leave Percival alone, coming back later to find Percival a howling curled form on the stone, twitching.

Delusional from hours of anguish shredding his mind. 

He shakes and drools, throat working— useless— to remove the potion sinking into his bloodstream. Drags nightmares from Percival’s head, distorting them to fit the cell and consume his thoughts.

A litany of pleads.

Percival relies on his torturer, begs for relief. Relaxes when the dark wizard stops hurting him. Resistance was ripped from him with his shredded pride. Grindelwald pushed until he broke— pushes further.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He watches himself fight with Grindelwald.

When his mind is fever-hot and his anger burns like fuel, devouring the fear so Percival spits blood and hisses insults. Engages in debates about whatever the dark wizard wants— at least, for that time, he isn’t being hurt—

There is another part of Percival hiding in the pain and the helplessness. Baring its teeth in a challenge when Grindelwald goads him. This visceral sensation of wrongness that roars from his bones. 

It is easier to engage in dialogue— it is longer breaks from the torture, and Percival has a chance to think about something else—  _ anything else. _

  
  


It is hard to make sense of Grindelwald’s arguments in Percival’s state. Harder at times than others, until he isn’t sure what is a pure thought and what has been poisoned by desperation and rhetoric.

But he must be a decent conversation partner, for Grindelwald entertains Percival’s transparent attempts to grant himself rest. Through muddled thoughts and a tongue that won’t work properly after too many spells.

  
  


He gave up hiding his mind from Grindelwald— not when his mind hasn’t been his own for this long.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

The darkness permeating his body erupts into fury. Meets the dark wizard with bloody, chipped teeth and hatred dripping from his mouth. It burns hot and fast, restrained by Grindelwald’s matching temper.

Weakened by injury until Percival is too exhausted to breathe.

  
  
  


 

 

 

The agony— 

Anguish rending his soul in two, curses tearing his brain into fever-hot shreds. Pain ripped from his throat through screams, howling— 

A pause— enough for strained gasps, quick and shuttering. To replace the air in his boiling blood. Heartbeat thready, misaligned. Blood between his teeth and in his throat, thick and dark. Reflexive swallowing— he hasn't had water in days. 

Sweat and blood staining his skin, the stone he lies on.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He is so very tired.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Home run, yall! Next chapter is going to be longer, but 14 and 15 will be pretty short.
> 
> How is it? Are you heartbroken yet? Ready for more?


	13. Rot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Destruction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Non-con (hinted at, not explicit. No explicit descriptions of anything. During and aftermath).  
> Manipulation, Victim-blaming, Suicidal thoughts/attempts, torture, violence and injury, dehumanization.
> 
> ****This chapter does not have to be read if you don't want to read it. The next two won't allude to any non-con. Take care of yourselves first, always! I write to work out my thoughts/feelings, but I understand that isn't for everyone.

 

It doesn't hurt.

It is the worst part.

 

Percival is mute, silent tears of humiliation spilling down his cheeks. He watches them fall, committing to memory the way they soak into the fabric. The tears are absorbed until nothing is left— like the rust-colored stains of his blood. Until another tear falls and he starts over again—

 

Grindelwald takes from him.

 

He bites his own cheek and lips so hard. To not make a sound through the horror screeching in his head. Watches blood join the tears in a bloom of red on dirty white. The taste is salt and metal, vibrant and a vital distraction as his teeth tear into his own flesh in desperation—

After—

  
  


Grindelwald lets him collapse, limp and horrified. Dazed and sick and trembling. Sweat drips off him, stinging when it seeps into open wounds. He throws up— over and over again until he's choking on bile and air.

 

Until it is the only thing he can do. Shake and taste bile dripping down his chin and suffocating on the sounds he doesn’t want to make—

  
  


_No no no no, please—_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Grindelwald is furious the next time, no patience for Percival’s inability to concentrate. It is a blur—

**It hurts—**

Percival hears his voice rise in panic, stumbling over words, trying to form a coherent thought. There is no kindness, no faux care softening the dark wizard's approach.

It hurts, _it hurts!_

Nothing compares to this intimate pain. Percival gives up immediately on trying to get away. Bound hands cause so much agony he can almost forget what is happening to him.

The nauseating agony of his broken bones. Trying to keep weight off of them results in Grindelwald going harder, disrupting Percival's balance. Poorly-healed ribs and teeth and cuts and burns protesting every movement—

 

The other pain cuts through regardless.

  


Rasping, high-pitched whines fall from his throat in an endless cry. Percival stares at the wall, ignoring the dark wizard as much as he can.

 

(It isn’t enough— bile rises in his throat, splatters onto the cot under him).

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“I wouldn't do this if you didn't want it, Percy. We both know you can't stop yourself.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


And— it was his bed.

The deliberate destruction of Percival’s privacy and dignity—

 

He cannot comprehend.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

Grindelwald has sprawled on Percival’s bed a few feet away, arrogant in his casual slouch, reading. In a dress shirt with the top buttons undone, sleeves rolled up. While Percival is naked, covered in bruises and blood and—

Humiliation and pain make him tremble—

 

“Shh, Percy.” Grindelwald says, drawing Percival’s shattered awareness to the sounds slipping from his bruised mouth.

Whimpers.

He's pathetic— useless and replaceable, evident by Grindelwald’s seamless integration into Percival’s life.

It has been too long. Too many days of Grindelwald living Percival’s life. Too many days blurring together with fear and pain and shame—

Tears soak the sheets under his face— and blood— and—

Percival cannot stop trembling, cannot stop the whines catching in his tight throat. Grindelwald has the luxury of ignoring him— ignoring the pain he wrought. (It isn’t the worst pain he’s felt but constant agony takes it toll, renders him unable to tolerate any amount of discomfort or shame).

 

Percival lies limp with fear. Terrified Grindelwald will become bored again and abandon his book—

 

He fails to smother his cries, even though he was already told to shut up. Grindelwald’s tolerance for defiance is nonexistent now—

  


Despite—

 

Percival nods off, stealing the chance to sleep in a warm room— in a bed.

It isn't _his_ anymore— but it is his blood and his head rests on a pillow and it is good enough— perfect, even. More comfortable and warm than anything he has felt in so long.

Part of Percival’s mind fights the drowsiness, not wanting to be caught unaware. But it cannot matter anymore— nothing can restore what he lost. There is nothing to do now at the mercy of Grindelwald’s impulses.

 

The rustle of pages turning is disarming.

A domestic scene if Percival wasn’t here. If he was erased from existence (he is, he's fading away). If he wasn't soaking the expensive sheets in blood, wasn’t a perverted mockery of the man he used to be—

Underweight and weak and silent and pathetic— skin marked by bruises and scars and burns that won’t heal—

The things he says— _begs_ — would have been unrecognizable. The fear he wears better than his skin—

 

Grindelwald relaxes, reading and savoring a drink. At odds with the fear permeating the room, distorting what used to be comforting and familiar.

He does not know how long Grindelwald has impersonated him but it has been long enough. Long enough for weight to drip of Percival’s bones like the blood from his veins. For him to tolerate the broken bones and gashes and burns, give in to the exhausting struggle to stay resolute—

Does it matter what Grindelwald does to him?

He isn't real anymore—the longer the dark wizard stays an imposter, the further Percival falls from himself.

He is a broken shadow, existing for Grindelwald’s entertainment and use. Memories— an outlet for his sadistic urges.

 

Percival sleeps, snatching minutes scattered through molasses time, waking at every changed breath or movement on the left side of the bed.

Breathe.

Shuddering inhales he tries to quiet so Grindelwald won't notice—  

It doesn't work forever—

 

“Are you sleeping?” Grindelwald’s hand is on his back. Fingers dig into the numerous cuts and welts. Percival’s breath catches.

He presses his face into the pillow. Swallows hard and draws up empty for composure.

Grindelwald hums, thoughtful as he aggravates old injuries. It doesn't make sense, why anyone could stand to touch him. Percival wants to scratch off his skin.

He doesn't realize he is crying until Grindelwald pulls him upright for a kiss. Vicious and demanding, nails digging into Percival’s neck.

He can't—

He has no choice.

 

“If you don't listen to me, darling, I'll make this worse for you.” Grindelwald murmurs, words nearing a purr.

Percival flinches when Grindelwald’s hand rests on his broken clavicle. Looks at him with eyes blurry from tears.

He is already shaking before Grindelwald lays another hand on him.

 

It isn't much of a choice, but his decision breeds self-loathing and disgust.

  
  
  
  


Later, after it happens more often, he is grateful— it's a respite, a rare halt of curses ripping his soul from his flesh.

Humiliation lingers, spreading like an infection.

Rot.

 

After, he cries. Cries before apathy cuts through rational and leaves him… complacent, limp. Willing to play along if it means a few minutes without something burning into his skin. Without more broken bones destroying his limbs like his hands or a curse tearing his nerves.

 

It always gets worse.

 

It is a fact of suffering.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Percival is dazed. Stuck in looped confusion as Grindelwald helps him— forces him— to stand as well as he's able. Crying and limping on broken bones and bad cuts into the bathroom.

Hitching cries and moans, animalistic sounds of pain escape. Percival clings to him with mangled hands as best he can, scrambling for a way to not walk— to not put his weight on his shattered foot, not to walk on his splintered femur. Grindelwald smirks and coaxes him along. Patient as Percival collapses to his knees with every step, cradling his broken hands to his chest and expressing the agony racing ups his legs to slice into his spine.

Grindelwald continues on.

Percival’s breath is shallow and weak, rapid-fast with pain. Tears burn his skin, blur his vision.

Strong, warm hands steady Percival. On his bare hip and forearm to help him into the bathtub. Hesitating, Percival chooses to shift his weight to his broken femur— his right side— to try to avoid bearing weight on his shattered foot—

Instead, he buckles from the agony. Grindelwald catches him with magic and a punishing grip on his wrist— bone grinds, crushes nerves. Percival sobs, twists, but sinks to his knees on cold porcelain. The dark wizard lets him rest, then pushes him to unfold and recline.

Warm water fills the tub, tinted pink with the blood weeping from Percival’s wounds. Exhausted, Percival rests his head back, tilts his chin so his throat is bared. He closes his eyes, trying to escape whatever will happen.

On rare occasions— after hard cases— Percival liked to soak in hot water until the bathroom air was thick with steam. All the stress from the day melted away. He sometimes fell asleep, waking hours later with wrinkled extremities. Muscles warm and relaxed like they hadn't been in weeks.

Grindelwald must know— it is no accident he destroys Percival’s habits. Frustrated helplessness burns Percival’s eyes. He swallows hard, refusing to cry over this, too.

Movement near his right shoulder.

Grindelwald, getting ready for a new nightmare to twist this situation into. Percival’s eyes remain closed. His muscles tense until he is a taut wire a few bad seconds away from snapping.

The clean scent of citrus and the deeper, grounding one of Percival’s bath oils cuts through the air. Percival clenches his jaw so hard it hurts— forces the air from his aching chest with a ragged exhale. Grindelwald will take and continue to ruin—

Percival jerks when a hand skims his shoulder. Grindelwald’s magic wraps around him like a python, forcing him to relax and weather the screaming protest of his body. Water laps at the bathtub, stirred up.

Percival opens his eyes.

“So tense, Percy.” Grindelwald’s smile is slight, amused as he smothers Percival’s defiance with a deliberate push on his mind. Hard enough to make Percival’s mouth open in a ragged gasp. The oil seeps into his wounds, and the gentle stinging of the water starts to hurt.

“I'm doing this for you. Don't be disrespectful.”

Percival lowers his gaze, shivering as Grindelwald hand dips into the warm water before sliding up his scarred chest. Along the unnatural bumps of inflamed joints of his ribs, broken and weary of constant injury until they resist healing magic. Until Percival has to take quick, shallow breaths to avoid straining his disfigured ribs.

(He hasn’t breathed deeply in weeks— pneumonia crept back into his lungs, thick and persistent).

Grindelwald fascination with Percival is a terrifying obsession, one he tries to bear through the torture.

 

The dark wizard wipes the grime and blood from Percival’s skin, touch firm. Reminding Percival he is unable to do anything for himself as Grindelwald cleans him. Percival, averting his blurred gaze to the ceiling, attempts to ignore his crawling skin. Grindelwald’s hands are warm, but leave fresh pain in their wake as Grindelwald tests the injuries.

Pressure along Percival’s ribs— enough to make him gasp. Bruises aching, spiking with pain as Grindelwald digs his palm into the one sweeping under Percival’s sternum. From a spell that almost ruptured something—

The hot water amplifies the intended comfort. Percival’s hatred is trapped. He cannot relax where he once could. The heat chases away the numbing cold, but Grindelwald is using it to humiliate further.

To remind Percival of his weakness and reaffirm Grindelwald’s control. A cleaning spell would work, but then Grindelwald couldn't enjoy Percival’s reactions. (If Percival has learned one thing about his captor, is that the dark wizard feeds off pain and emotion— either to fascinate him or work him up into a temper).

Percival jumps—

A pleading sound escapes as Grindelwald moves from his left shoulder to left wrist.

Grindelwald clicks his tongue, studying the damage of twisted, swollen flesh. Oozing and dripping with a slow bleed. Fingers curled and locked unnaturally from torn ligaments and tendons, from broken bones.

“That doesn't look good, does it?”

Percival cannot stop himself from shaking in Grindelwald’s ghost-light grip. He does not speak— not when he is ready to beg for mercy before anything has started. Instinct has him shift closer to guard the injury.

Grindelwald moves. A pleading, low cry escapes before Percival could stop himself.

Warranted, though, because Grindelwald’s other hand rests on top of Percival’s. Pain sparks— and Percival cuts off another sound before it could leave his mouth. He remains frozen as Grindelwald decides what to do with him—

Only tests the limited mobility, so Percival flinches and shivers, trying to ignore the screaming protest of his hand. He bites his lip so hard it bleeds. He does it so often, it never heals past a sore.

_Please, stop—_

Grindelwald does the same to Percival’s other hand. Percival tries to remain still to get it over with even though it is agony to let the dark wizard touch him. He doesn’t get to decide what happens to him, only how he reacts—

Yelps as pressure explodes in his thigh. Grindelwald ignores Percival’s cry of agony as he places his hand on Percival’s broken femur and _pushes._

“Please, stop! Grindelwald, _stop stop—”_ The words rush out, released from behind teeth clenched in pain as it reaches unbearable levels—

Water splashes out of the tub as Percival twists, desperate and crying out in pain. He cannot grab the dark wizard but leans into him to beg. The muscles and bones were long since destroyed—

 _“Grindelwald, please—_ god, please stop!” Tears fall— Percival convulses in shame and agony as Grindelwald’s hand slides up—

 _“Please,”_ he gasps, trying to meet the dark wizard's eyes. And jerks so hard it flares agony through him— but there are hands on his thighs, causing pain and humiliation as Grindelwald works the blood and grime off skin.

“You're too weak to clean yourself up, Percy. And you're in no state to complain— you know what you did.

The murmur may have been a slap for how Percival reacts. Followed by a violent flinch when Grindelwald touches him—

Percival chokes, falls silent in fear when Grindelwald—

Shudders, tightly wound and panting but Grindelwald remains clinical despite the intimacy. Percival refuses to move, trembling. Grindelwald can do anything to him and Percival cannot stop him—

But the contact moves to other parts of him caked with old blood and evidence of his weakness and fear. Percival shies from Grindelwald’s hands causing pain, causing shame. Working the bloody clumps from his hair.

The dark wizard is gentle, aware rough handling will make Percival throw up from the headache he cannot shake— it is nausea-inducing, too, with fingers massaging his scalp to remove tangled hair and weeks worth of suffering.

The water changes from a dirty red to clear a few times before Grindelwald decides he has done enough. Percival fails to hide his pain as the dark wizard scrubs him with soap. It is clean and fresh, but it burns his injuries—

Percival lets Grindelwald do what he wants to clean him up with minimal struggling.

Soap washes away with more warm water. Percival begins to appreciate being clean again after so long covered and stained with blood and dirt and filth—

“Come on.”

Percival’s mind goes blank with the order— a terrifying reaction to the Imperius Curse but he knows he can't fight it. Follows Grindelwald back to the bedroom (it doesn't occur to Percival to call it “his” anymore; it isn't). Cries out as his bones protest bearing weight— repeats the struggle of walking, except this time he's wet and locked out of his own head.

Grindelwald is not lenient.

 

A wordless gesture indicates Percival should get in the bed again. He resists, and it results in a sharp pain flaring across his back. Wincing, he starts to lie down. The curse’s strength ebbs. He wants to crumple to the floor and moan from the agony.

“Sit up.”

Percival readjusted himself, breathing strained with poorly concealed panic. Shivering now the cold air chills his wet skin and hair. As Grindelwald ignores him.

Sitting makes him aware of every ache and bruise, bringing a sickening focus to his injuries. Not that he can escape any of it. The softness of the sheets is alien against his skin after so long spent on stone. His nerves don’t understand comfort anymore. This isn't comfort, not with the threat of—

of—

 

A firm grip on his chin startles Percival to look into the hard gaze of his captor. His heart lurches in his chest when the gleam of a razor blade catches his eye. Percival remains frozen as Grindelwald sinks the edge into his chest and then opens a thin, burning line with a controlled gesture.

Too often the dark wizard carefully shreds Percival’s skin into blood ribbons until the pieces fall— he wants to scream and avoid the blade but he is usually trapped or spelled frozen. Grindelwald is always relaxed and calm as if the act of mutilation relieves his stress—

It must have been a distraction or a compulsion because Grindelwald refrains from harming again Percival in favor of ridding him of his facial hair.

This, somehow, is worse.

The clean scent and cool kiss of his shaving cream is too familiar— a reminder of how perverse the situation is. Which leaves Percival reeling to realize he only has about a week’s worth of stubble but he certainly doesn’t remember this happening before.

There is no way it’s been only a week… right?

“You can’t remember?”

Grindelwald reminds Percival he has lost his occlumency shield for good— the dark wizard is constantly reading his thoughts. An invasion he hardly feels and doesn’t notice anymore.

Percival refrains from turning his head away— he doesn’t want to get cut by accident or on purpose. Instead, he closes his eyes and trembles at the first glide of the blade over his cheek. An act of privacy twisted into a power play, forcing Percival to give in.

“Hmm… not entirely unexpected, considering.”

Percival’s attention is warped. Sometimes he is hyper-aware of Grindelwald’s presence but at other times the dark wizard’s voice is intelligible radio static. Now is one of the dangerous times Percival tries to stay alert but he is mentally incapable of dealing with whatever is coming his way.

Maybe he would have been better prepared for Grindelwald to wipe the razor clean across Percival’s thigh if he wasn’t so damn lost—

And wouldn’t startle before Grindelwald’s hand tightens around his throat.

Percival stares into the haunting heterochromatic eyes. Reads cruelty in the amused curve of Grindelwald’s smile and drops his own gaze. He should anticipate Grindelwald doing anything to cause Percival the most physical or mental anguish. The feather-light touch of his shaving cream forces Percival to stop ignoring the deep grinding pain of multiple fractures.

The threat of a blade is dehumanizing when Percival is exposed and vulnerable. Almost close enough to throw him into a panic, but instead leaves him waiting with frayed nerves. He doesn’t need to keep his eyes open to know Grindelwald’s undivided attention is on him— the bastard enjoys seeing how far Percival can be pushed before he crumples.

Again.

The rasp of the razor across the sensitive skin of Percival’s face is enough to wear down his false composure. The lack of pain is unnerving. Grindelwald avoids nicking the scar tissue across his right cheek. The care mimics concern— he is desperate for a glimpse of kindness—

 

Percival tenses— lets out a pained, weak gasp as his thigh protests. Grindelwald cleans the razor at irregular intervals, sometimes twice in a row. Worse, the dark wizard varies where he does it, at Percival’s knee to hip.

The second time the cold bar of the blade slides close to his crotch, Percival feels his tears cutting through the shaving cream. Silent, even as he’s terrified and overwhelmed. There is no predicting what Grindelwald will do next—

Grindelwald’s chuckle is a physical blow he flinches from.

“Stay still, Percy.”

Grindelwald tilts Percival’s head back to shave his throat. Percival blinks the tears out of his eyes, stares through the ceiling. A thought barrels through his head at the second pass of the razor—

“Don’t move!” Grindelwald hisses, Imperius Curse preventing Percival from leaning forward to slice open his throat.

Bare all that blood to the room in a freeing arterial spray—

Instead of being frustrated, Percival is numb.

A thin bead of blood trickles from the shallow slice. The dark wizard growls, sustaining the Curse holding Percival still. Grindelwald doesn’t punish him for the near-death but continues as if Percival’s actions are meaningless to him. Only presses harder when the razor runs over Percival’s thigh, leaving faint red lines. Through the ugly blues and purples and greens of the never healing tissues. Jostling his leg causes recurring injuries as bone shards get turned around, stuck, and puncture muscles and blood vessels.

Grindelwald lets Percival drop his head when he finishes.

A soft cry of agony is all Percival can manage when Grindelwald uses a cloth to wipe away the shaving cream on his leg— he pushes too hard and all Percival wants to do is guard the injury but he cannot move with the curse locking him in place.

“Still crying?” Grindelwald pretends to care, wipes away the tears. “Pathetic.”

Before, Percival would have bristled and spit out an insult in reply. Now, he lowers his gaze in shame. He is worthless, a fading shadow of himself. Cannot bare predictable insults and curses anymore— he’s worn out.

Grindelwald has a terrifying skill of being able to nonverbally order Percival to do anything under the Imperius Curse. Percival will find himself mid-task and panic, mind racing to piece together the silent command. Worse is when Grindelwald doesn’t allow him to compensate for his injuries, leaving Percival screaming in pain as his body pushes through.

This command has Percival crawling to the right side of the bed— a moan flees his throat, strained with fear and pain. Mind his injuries, please. Only a few eternal seconds of agony before Percival collapses with his head on a pillow. Clean sheets— Grindelwald must have changed them.

Lying here again— he shudders.

Carefully, Percival discovers he can move his limbs. Draws his arms in to keep them protected, further out of sight to protect his broken hands. Lying on them hurts, but not worse than if he left them to be stepped on or destroyed more.

A warm, heavy weight settles over him. He works himself into near-hysteria until it clicks that what covers him is a blanket. A few, judging by the weight. Grindelwald is… letting him sleep here? In the bed?

“I think you earned it, don’t you?” Grindelwald’s hand strokes down his spine. Soothing.

Percival hates he doesn’t tense. Instead, he closes his eyes.

“I appreciate your responsiveness. That’s all I ask of you, Percival.”

Percival swallows hard. Tries to focus, instead, on the perfect warmth of the bed.

 

“You would know you wanted it, too, if you didn’t fight me so much.”

 

Percival’s breath leaves in a ragged sob. Reminded of the ugly need that consumed him—

  
  
  


Grindelwald leaves him alone for the day. Goes to work in a now-unrecognizable face and sleek clothes.

 

Percival hardly sleeps. Regrets it when Grindelwald comes back.

 

Uses him, then falls asleep next to Percival. Possessive. Leaving Percival wrecked, filthy again.

 

He cries in the suffocating silence of the night, wide awake.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

Percival wants to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was rough, huh? Please take care of yourself <3 Take the time to do it. 
> 
> Last long chapter! The last two will most likely be under 1k each (but I don't make any promises since I haven't written them yet). Having major issues with my sleep right now, so it may be written quickly or not depending on what I can get my brain to do. I thought I was over this but I guess not. *shrugs*
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. It really makes my day!
> 
> *** hahaha, I realized autocorrect said "humiliation lingerie" and not "humiliation lingers". While funny, it had to go XD


	14. Destruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How long has it been?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Graphic depictions of violence, torture, manipulation, body horror, suicidal thoughts, victim blaming, dehumanization

 

He lost the ability to speak some time ago.

 

Percival cannot remember when it happened— if there was a specific moment or if it happened over time. When he cries out in pain, his throat burns and refuses to make a sound besides a rasping exhale. It hurts worse to cough or scream— Mercy Lewis, the screaming.

 

Grindelwald was irritated. That much he remembers. The dark wizard spent half an hour trying to fix Percival’s voice. Growing frustrated when Percival was reluctant to talk when it was partially healed.

Speaking is glass in his throat, words grating out in shards between his teeth to spit out with blood and pain. He can almost approximate his voice to be recognizable, but only after extensive healing and not for long.

Grindelwald does not care after a few interested attempts. Percival is a target to satiate his curiosity. As a something to relieve boredom. The torture or the discussions or—

 

Percival isn't worth enough to Grindelwald to deserve anything but mocking disappointment and contempt. They have talked so much already— Grindelwald is a gifted speaker, persuasive and genuine in presentation. Cloaking his plans for chaos with utopian fantasies.

The dark wizard is intelligent and manipulative. It makes Percival sick to see Grindelwald wearing his face, oozing charm and confidence when he wants to. Sees the draw surrounding him like an aura.

A fire coaxing moths to fuel the flames.

 

Percival doesn't need to talk anymore. Grindelwald can rip Percival’s thoughts from his head if he wants. If he cares about Percival’s opinions.

 

There is nothing to say.

  
  
  


Percival has no energy to fight back. He no longer hisses insults in the salvageable corners of his mind. Nothing. Nothing to say to beg Grindelwald to stop— he is complacent, resigned to endure whatever the dark wizard decides to do to him.

(Percival shouldn't push anymore— Grindelwald lashes out immediately against any sort of resistance. Punishment is brutal and unavoidable, so Percival learns to suffer as quietly and as passively as possible.

The dark wizard must be cagey from the job. He takes it out on Percival— as long as he isn’t doing the same to his Aurors. Grindelwald is struggling to move forward with his plan. There is no reason for him to be stalling for this long.

 

When Percival is torn up from curses, he sometimes hears Grindelwald muttering to himself. Angry whispered German— Percival knows a little, enough to translate Grindelwald’s frustration.

 

Percival tries to tolerate the bad moods. But it is so hard when Grindelwald is looking for any reason to snap.)

  
  
  
  


Percival’s new source of pain is the deep-cutting ropes binding his wrists together.

Thin black ropes, rough against his skin, digging into flesh. From his wrist to his mid-arm. Coiled tight like vipers, tightening every time Percival tries to bite through them.

 

Earned days ago when Percival scratched Grindelwald across the face, desperate to avoid… to avoid—

God, Percival was so overwhelmed with pain and fear. He passed out as soon as Grindelwald retaliated. Faded in and out, gasping as he breathed through the agony burning his hands.

The pain was a good distraction from what the dark wizard was doing to him—

 

Percival woke up later to forearms bound in half-inch thick rope. Enough searing pain racing through his swollen hands to believe Grindelwald broke most of the bones again.

  
  


The injuries worsen quickly.

 

Percival should expect it of open wounds. His hands are raw and inflamed. The ropes tighten the more he struggles or pulls on them— making Percival desperate as Grindelwald ignores his increasing panic through other torture.

 

He has to watch as his hands die.

The tissues swell and turn ugly colors, reds and purples to grey and black. Skin splits around the ropes, fusing together from dried blood and blood clots on the rough fiber— it smells awful. Of rot.

 

Percival can't breathe.

 

Grindelwald ignores him— keeps him occupied with other pain until Percival is reduced to a bundle of overloaded nerves. Without the ability to beg Grindelwald for help…

 

Until Grindelwald makes him an offer to heal them.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

Percival hates him.

Hates him with so much rage and helplessness he doesn't know what to do.

 

He cannot say no— and that's why Grindelwald has asked this of him. With a shark’s smile and a teasing slide of his hand down Percival’s neck.

 

Percival gags and swears the little he can.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He gives in a few days later.

Flushed with fever and blood poisoning. Choking on so much humiliation his lungs are filled with lead.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


But he does it.

 

With tears blurring his vision— nausea tightening his throat.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Grindelwald heals Percival’s left hand only.

Won't heal the other without a second trade—

  
  


Percival cries.

 

Lasts another day through agony until he crawls back to the dark wizard to be healed.

Grindelwald makes him beg for it until Percival is terrified the dark wizard won't let him save his right hand. The bastard laughs at him, pretends to be gentle and concerned.

  


Percival thought it couldn't get worse— he thought he had no pride left to break.

 

Grindelwald proves he will do anything if it causes Percival pain or humiliation. So potent Percival wishes he could die.

  
  


“Good, Percy.” Grindelwald praises, smile vicious.

Percival doesn't dare to pull away when the dark wizard kisses him. Only tenses and keeps his mouth shut as Grindelwald tries to deepen the kiss.

 

Occasionally, Grindelwald allows Percival some form of resistance. If he's amused. Otherwise, Percival regrets not obeying.

  


(Grindelwald heals Percival’s hand to the best of his ability— like he promised. Percival could feel the magic poured into the healing spells. Grindelwald did his best.

Percival’s right hand is beyond repair.

The wounds closed up and the bones healed, but there had been too much long-term damage to undo. He is sure the bones are malformed. Skin streaked with red marks and scars, nerves misfiring as pins and needles through his hand. The agony of it lessened to a low constant throb— in comparison to what it used to be, it is a miracle

 

The ropes stay as a permanent reminder to never pull a stunt like that again).

 

He doesn't know what to do. How he can endure— Grindelwald took away his ability to decide.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why couldn't the dark wizard kill Percival? Take what he needed from Percival's mind and leave him to die?

Percival has tried to refuse food and water. Tried to kill himself by any possible means short of bashing his head in against the wall— and Percival, as much as he wishes he were dead, doesn't think he can do it.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

_Please kill me._

 

Grindelwald pauses, looks up from the study desk. Smirking as he turns to face Percival.

 

Percival lies discarded on the hardwood floor. Head pounding as if Grindelwald took an ax to it— legilimency and another head injury. Impact related, maybe. He hurts in intimate places— it makes him sick.

 

“...please...” He whispers with a destroyed voice like gravel.

 

Grindelwald chuckles and leans back in his chair. Arrogant. Sitting at the desk Percival sat at, making a mockery of his life and his work. With MACUSA files in front of him, Percival’s initials and signature forged in flawless handwriting.

“Where is the fun in that?”

 

Percival's hatred boils over. It tastes like black magic and pain and blood.

 

“I… h-hate you.” Percival manages to say.

 

Grindelwald can read his mind whenever he wants. The dark wizard must sink through the dark anger and helplessness when he sorts through memories.

Words cannot encompass Percival’s fury. He has never despised anyone with his entire mind, body, and soul before this. It would be so easy to turn the tables on Grindelwald— if Percival’s magic wasn't missing.

 

The kind of man Percival is now— with whatever shards of his old life are left to fester— would enjoy tearing Grindelwald apart. Making him suffer. Most wizards and witches cannot cast Unforgivables because some part of them does not want to cause another harm. There can be no hesitation or guilt in dark magic.

 

(Torture had never been an option for Percival. He has killed out of necessity. Aurors don't need to hate someone to think they should die— and the Killing Curse is only one way to deliver a fatal blow.

 

Right now, however, there is no doubt in Percival’s mind he could cast the Cruciatus Curse with immense success).

 

“I know.” Grindelwald shows his teeth like an animal. Returns to his work.

“You can hate me as much as you want, Percival.” Grindelwald doesn't look up even though Percival can hear the damn amusement in his tone.

 

“You hate yourself so much more.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Percival’s memory goes from worse to nothing. It is reduced to flashes of agony between large gaps of lonely silence. Grindelwald’s pale face grinning. Hands touching him.

 

Nothing.

 

Pain. So much pain— _he can't take it anymore!_

  
  
  
  


Grindelwald’s anger is worse than as his boredom. He inflicts the most damage then, too enraged to think ahead.

 

Percival shouldn't have. He knows better than to backtalk Grindelwald when he's in a foul mood—

  
  


 

Pinned to the stone, trying to scream except his voice is gone— he has been mute for weeks; it has to be permanent by now— blood choking him from his damaged throat.

 

Agony carved into his back. A blade sinking deep to scrape bones— ribs, vertebrae. Forced to lie still as Grindelwald mutilates him.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Percival wakes up unable to move. To breathe.

When Grindelwald reappears, Percival starts to beg him to heal his back—

A slashing spell shuts him up.

  
  
  
  


Something must have happened. Grindelwald is furious.

 

Demands information about… about… an Auror. Percival cannot remember what was said. What he said in a mix of desperation and fear and confusion.

 

After, Grindelwald calmed down enough to ease some of Percival’s pain.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Days later—

 

Grindelwald yanks Percival up, throws him back to the floor to wake him. Percival moans, seeing the glass in Grindelwald’s hand. The potion.

“That bitch! She's alerted MACUSA—” Grindelwald rounds on Percival. Shaking with fury, terrifying Percival. He has never seen the dark wizard like this—

_W-what?_

**“You said—”** Grindelwald cuts himself to send a spell cracking across Percival’s face. He yelps— or tries, and ends up with a scratchy gasp— teeth sparking in pain.

“I'll kill her—”

Percival scrambles to keep up. Draws a blank.

_I don’t understand!_

Grindelwald snarls. Grabs Percival by his hair— drags him in. Percival recoils, avoiding any possible way to have his face near Grindelwald’s crotch—

 

He should have focused on the potion. Grindelwald dumps it down his back—

It is acid when it touches open gashes— Percival passes out after the first second of complete, mind-burning agony.

 

White hot lighting.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Percival hears soft muttering. Grindelwald obsessing over ‘the child’, he can't find the child. He’s running out of time.

 

_Good._

 

Grindelwald stops. Walks over to make Percival kneel. The words he speaks are too much for Percival’s pain-scrambled mind.

  


A gleam of metal. The poker.

 

Percival has no time to react before Grindelwald swings it into his jaw.

Crushes through bones as Percival slumps to stone. Cracks his head open from a backward, uncontrolled fall—

 

He has no idea— passed out from the torturing agony.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Black crimson pooling.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:3


	15. At Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Breathe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Body horror, graphic descriptions of injury

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Percival is unconscious when an exhale shudders out of his ruined face and bubbles out into the growing puddle of red.

  
A wheezing, irregular puff of air.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

His last.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it, folks!
> 
> How was the experience? Did you enjoy (well, were you hooked?) "All I Suffered"? Any feedback is so wonderfully appreciated. Was Percival realistic-- was Grindelwald? Did I make you cry or were you upset? Especially considering this fic is now completed, any thoughts you have would be taken into consideration for when I continue the series.
> 
>  
> 
> I thoroughly enjoyed myself!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I'll post more to the series later. I do have another fic I have to return to. I'll do a chapter of my Captain America fic, then write a bunch for FBATWT. Maybe I'll actually have the entire fic written instead of doing it chapter by chapter lol. I have a plan, I promise. I might just be slow going-- strike 'maybe'. It will take a while. I'm a slow writer because I never have the time :)
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you very much for reading! I love you <3


	16. ***PLAYLIST

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you wanted a thematic playlist of songs to listen to :) Sorry if you thought this was another chapter! These are sorta organized thematically. Links will be to youtube unless I can't find the song there. (All are on spotify, so you can listen to them there).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of these are sad and angry together, but I think it really works (and I like that mood in music). Lyrics are really fitting, so I do recommend looking at them if you haven't heard the song before :)
> 
> I did try to organize them in a way that made sense, but who knows if that worked. It's my first playlist so forgive me.
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy! <3

  * "[Time of Dying](https://youtu.be/x9W598i7hGU)" by Three Days Grace



Poor Percival. He has no idea what's in store for him.

 

  * "[This Pain Feels Real](https://youtu.be/ski6AYbfU-A)" by Voicians



Great song for imagining Percival’s state of mind after suffering through so many curses.

 

  * "[In Chains](https://youtu.be/2Mize_0SEwY)" by Shaman's Harvest



When Percival is done with this shit, but still has some hope.

 

  * "[Whisper](https://youtu.be/1XgfSGdaL0M)" by Evanescence



 This is only the beginning.

 

  * "[Rot](https://youtu.be/hFSesFZTN3A)" by Lacey Sturm



Ugh, love this song so much. So much raw emotion.

 

  * "[Obsolete](https://youtu.be/8QYvqDr7kCo)" by Jeff Hardy, Peroxwhy?Gen



Singer has a bit of a lisp (only obvious in the beginning), but one of my favorite songs in this playlist.

 

  * "[Bloodshot Eyes](https://youtu.be/BkhHgIJ0vVc)" by Throw the Fight



I think of this song as from Grindelwald's and Percival’s POV.

 

  * "[Happy](https://youtu.be/gYED_UYMaXQ)?" by Mudvayne



Percival is hella pissed at Grindelwald.

 

  * "[Going Under](https://youtu.be/-hejDk-QRTI)" by Evanescence



Here, too.

 

  * "[Break the Wall](https://youtu.be/xANVLFPf9Iw)" by Thomas Will, feat. William



If I only had to pick one song to represent "All I Suffered", this one would be it.

 

  * "[The Bird and the Worm](https://youtu.be/d8Wn5Ex5xzc)" by The Used



When he has no pride left.

 

  * "[Biting Down](https://youtu.be/qF-qVL5NADU)" by Lorde



Dissociating.

 

  * "[Mercy](https://youtu.be/Pymh-4n7eCI)" by Hurts



*very fitting for Chapter 13 (also "Biting Down")

 

  * "[Get Out Alive](https://youtu.be/hpbZMZm0kbE)" by Three Days Grace



 It's too late for this.

 

  * "[Fade Away](https://youtu.be/KrtcxBHqskk)" by Zach Hemsey



 

**Author's Note:**

> I need to have characters in pain and suffering c:< (in case that wasn't clear).
> 
> Comment/Leave Kudos if you enjoyed!


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